


Though We Went Our Separate Ways

by Basser



Series: Can't Rewind Verse [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bloke from Sherlock's past, Can't Rewind Verse, Eric Crenshaw, Ex-Boyfriends, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basser/pseuds/Basser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whoever this freckled bloke was he'd certainly cornered the market on eliciting uncharacteristic reactions from Sherlock Holmes. John Watson, meet Eric Crenshaw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got this edited to my satisfaction. Well, the first bit anyway. There's doubtless going to be more at some point. I had sort of decided on not posting it until the whole thing was finished but you know how I am with WIPs. If I don't post at least part of it I'll never get done.
> 
> So… here you go! First chapter of the oft-requested reunion fic. Warning for copious amounts of d'aww.
> 
> **Note** if you have arrived here through the 'new stories' queue: this is part of the **Can't Rewind Verse** series. It features an original character who served as a romantic interest for Sherlock in another fic of mine. You can probably still read this without knowing the backstory but it might seem a little silly lacking context.

**««**

It was the usual bedlam of a recent crime scene, the smouldering ruins of a block of flats in the background, officers milling about the premises, everything ensconced by ubiquitous yellow tape. John meandered along in the wake of Sherlock's billowing coat and tried not to let his eyes dwell too long on the ambulances parked helter-skelter amongst the debris. No casualties, thank god, but the tenants of the unfortunate building all seemed to be in various states of treatment for injuries ranging from mild burns to smoke inhalation.

Sherlock, in his usual manner, completely ignored the chaos around him. He made a beeline for the figure of Lestrade standing near a cordoned-off patch of pavement. John was quite certain they weren't welcome here - Sherlock hadn't even been contacted about this case, after all; he'd just caught a mention of it on the news and decided for whatever inscrutable reason that the flat fire had to be connected to an ongoing investigation of his.

As John had expected, Lestrade wasted no time in making a half-hearted attempt to shoo the both of them off his crime scene.

"Sherlock, honestly, you can't just-" he started, exasperated, as Donovan glared from behind him. Sherlock promptly cut over the imminent lecture.

"Witnesses?"

Lestrade worked his jaw a tick, looking like he wanted to argue, then simply sighed and indicated a man sitting on the bonnet of a parked squadcar some metres off. "Just the one."

Sherlock didn't even wait to hear the witness' name, just sauntered boldly toward the car and the figure seated atop it. The bloke had his head down, rummaging through his trouser pockets for something, and thus didn't immediately notice when Sherlock started in with his usual condescending clip of an interrogation.

"You were a personal friend of the chief suspect, present in his flat from the time of four in the morning to seven in the evening, ample opportunity to observe his behaviour hours before the fire," Sherlock rattled off impatiently as they neared the witness. Finally the man looked up with a confused expression on a soot-streaked, freckled face. His gaze darted toward John first before flicking over to Sherlock... whereupon his round, amber-brown eyes seemed to widen in shock. He froze in place with his hand half out of his pocket.

Sherlock, of course, merely carried on speaking, his gaze having flitted off into the clouds of smoke some seconds ago as if actually paying attention to the person he was talking to were beneath him.

"What precisely did he say in reference... to..."

John shot a startled look sidelong as Sherlock abruptly trailed off mid-sentence. Beside him the detective had finally shifted his gaze away from the smoke and trained it on the witness' face. Their expressions now mirrored twin looks of abject shock as they stared each other down.

"What's wrong?" John flitted his eyes back and forth between the two men, instantly on the alert. What? Was there a hidden weapon? Did the bloke have a gun on him?

"... oh," Sherlock muttered after a rather long pause. He seemed to have frozen with his hands tucked neatly behind his back, posture a picture-perfect image of calm poise. The collected stance stood in ridiculous contrast to the look of stunned surprise on his face.

"Bloody..." The witness' voice faded out as he slowly moved his hands away from his pockets. Freckled cheeks bunched up a bit in a tiny, half-bewildered smile, one hand going to rub nervously at the back of his head as he tried again with a more appropriate reply. "Er... hi?"

Sherlock just kept staring. John, for his part, was beginning to feel very out of the loop. Lacking anything to say, however, he held his tongue and watched with interest as Sherlock's ramrod-straight posture seemed to melt into an awkward, fidgety quest for something to do with his hands.

"What are you doing at a flat in Islington?" the detective asked rather suddenly, sounding a tad bit scandalised. He'd finally shoved his fists into the front pockets of his greatcoat in an odd sort of defensive-looking posture and stood half-glaring at the man in front of them.

"I, er... my friend lives here?" The witness gave them a slightly confused shrug and another befuddled smile. His accent was difficult to place - estuary, mostly, but with buried hints of a cockney drawl and some vague northern influences. "Or, I mean... he did, anyway. It's a bit burnt now."

Sherlock frowned. "You've relocated to Lancaster. Bit of a trip just to visit a _friend._ "

"Well it was more for business, mostly. London's got a better import selection on woodwinds so I figured I'd..." The man's words cut off suddenly and he shot Sherlock a vaguely affronted look. His accent seemed to slip a few notches toward cockney in apparent annoyance. "Oi hang on - you been keepin' tabs on where I live?"

Sherlock's arms stiffened in his pockets as he hunched his shoulders slightly. "No."

The two of them stared each other down for a few seconds. Finally the witness snorted, and, laughing, allowed his expression to crack into a wide grin.

"You haven't changed a bit, have you?"

"Is that a bad thing?" Despite the bland monotone of Sherlock's voice his bearing remained rigid, defensive almost. John glanced between the two men again. Clearly they knew each other from somewhere. Former friends, maybe? But then Sherlock had always been quick to assert that he didn't _do_ 'friends', so...

Rather than answer Sherlock's question the man merely shook his head, a smile still playing at his lips. He shoved a hand through short, soot-stained hair and glanced behind them at the tangle of police officers milling about the investigation scene.

"Bit of a career change, this, ain't it? Never expected you of all blokes to be a cop..."

"I'm not a _cop_. I'm a private detective." Sherlock's expression flitted towards an annoyed frown. "The Met recruits me for consultation whenever their stupidity gets the better of them. Which is _always_."

"I think in this case you more recruited yourself," John pointed out, feeling as if he should at least try and keep the facts straight. Sherlock shot him an irritated sidelong glance.

"Eric," he intoned blandly, still fixing John with an annoyed look. He turned his head back to the witness and gestured to his flatmate before continuing. "This is John Watson, my... assistant. John, Eric Crenshaw."

"Cheers," Crenshaw greeted and flashed a wide, cheerful smile as he accepted John's handshake. After a pause he glanced between the two of them, expression gone a bit odd but still firmly on the side of friendly. "Er... so you two are...?"

John fought the urge to sigh. Yep, and there they went again - because _clearly_ he and Sherlock were shagging each other. John forced back an exasperated expression and opened his mouth to correct the ubiquitous mistake. Why did everyone always guess that? Did he and Sherlock really look _that_ much like a gay couple?

Before John could say anything, though, and for the first time in living memory... he was beaten to the punch.

"Flatmates," Sherlock cut in quickly. Rather _too_ quickly, all things considered. John startled, shot him a baffled look _(Sherlock giving a damn what people assumed about them? What parallel universe had they stumbled into?)_ and Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing in a less abrupt tone. "... _just_ flatmates. John accompanies me on investigations because he's an adrenaline junkie."

"Oi," John objected, frowning. Neither of the other two seemed to be paying him much heed however.

"Oh! Well that's gre- I mean, erm..." Crenshaw coughed and looked elsewhere, a slight flush creeping up his freckled cheeks. "That is... thought he looked a bit old for you? Ah, no offence there, mate," he added toward John with a wince.

John shrugged. "None taken." He glanced back to Sherlock, who appeared to be having a great deal of trouble deciding what to say next, and furrowed his brows in bemusement. Well that was odd, wasn't it? Considering the great prat nearly always had a scathing reply at the ready... honestly if John didn't know better he'd classify this whole interaction as an awkward meeting between exes.

Turning back to Crenshaw _(who was also looking rather tongue-tied; good lord this was just going nowhere fast, wasn't it?)_ John decided he'd best try to salvage a shred of professionalism. He dug his notepad from the inside pocket of his coat and flipped it open with a matter-of-fact clearing of his throat. Both other men seemed to startle a bit and shifted their attention towards him.

"About your friend, then?" he asked amicably. Crenshaw pressed the palms of his hands together in a strange gesture and nodded somewhat absently, glancing to the ruined building behind them.

"Mick, y'mean... right, er..." He cleared his throat, and with his next words the slur of cockney which had begun to creep into his speech over the last few minutes had morphed back into a more business-like Estuary clip. "Well he was acting a bit strangely most of the day, really. Pacing round muttering to himself. He's a pretty weird bloke normally though so I didn't think much of it. I left at ten or so this morning, was out meeting with suppliers until around four, then I came back to fetch some paperwork. When I walked in Mick was carrying this little red horse statue about - he usually kept it on the coffee table, you know, decorative thing - and he was shouting how he had to get rid of it right away or something terrible would happen. And then-"

"You heard alarms or cries from the other tenants indicating that the building was on fire and evacuated, obviously," Sherlock cut in. His mysterious fit of nerves earlier seemed to have subsided into something more approaching his usual aloof attitude. "Mick disappeared in the chaos and hasn't responded to any calls or texts. The police will have found the horse statue shattered on the pavement nearby, revealing it to have been concealing detailed notes concerning the arson in his handwriting, leading to his declaration as the primary suspect."

John waited for the inevitable baffled look, questions of _'how did you know that'_ or some otherwise bewildered reaction from the witness. Jarringly, though, Crenshaw just carried on with the conversation unruffled, behaving as if Sherlock's interjection were perfectly normal.

"Yeah. Only it's weird 'cause Mick was about the last guy you'd expect to be an _arsonist_ , of all things. Bloke's seriously phobic of fire. Won't even touch the stove, panics if he sees a box of matches. I can't imagine how he managed to set a whole _building_ alight..."

"Clearly he was framed." Sherlock had pulled his mobile from his pocket and flicked a few keys to bring up a photo. He handed the device to Crenshaw. "Same horse figurine?"

"Yep." Crenshaw raised his eyebrows at the phone and turned it over to look at the back casing. "Is this the new Blackberry? What'd you pay for it?"

"Nothing. Mycroft foisted it on me." Sherlock rather uncharacteristically allowed his phone to remain in Crenshaw's possession as he turned to beckon Lestrade over. It took a few tries to get the DI's attention, but the man soon caught sight of Sherlock's impatient waving and raised his arms in a _'can't you see I'm busy?'_ posture. Sherlock just beckoned him again, glaring, and with a put-upon roll of his eyes Lestrade left a few parting words with the officer he'd been speaking to and started toward them.

"Sherlock, I've got an investigation to run. If you've tied everything up in a neat little bow that's great but I still have to manage the-"

"The next target will be an odd-numbered home in Hackney's St. Elphin's Park development. Your arsonist will arrive near midnight tonight to lay incendiaries and will walk with a pronounced limp. Use the manufacturer's seal of the horse figurine to find others who purchased the same item within a two-week timeframe of the first incident."

"What first incident?" Lestrade's expression was set in its usual mix of confusion, grudging respect, and mild exasperation.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The hotel fire in Haringey, clearly."

"Clearly," Lestrade repeated in a flat voice. He shifted one hand to his hip while the other scrubbed tiredly through his hair. "Right, I have no idea what fire you're referring to... but well enough, we'll look into it. Hackney's next, you said?"

Sherlock nodded. Lestrade dropped the hand from his head and retrieved a notebook from his coat pocket to jot down the instructions. Once done he looked over Sherlock's shoulder to Crenshaw still sitting on the bonnet of the squad car behind them.

"Sorry if he's given you any trouble, sir. Consulting detective for the arson case... gets a bit abrasive, but he's the best we've got for this sort of investigation."

Crenshaw smiled and glanced toward Sherlock with something like fond pride. "I'm alright," he assured brightly. He'd been fiddling idly with Sherlock's phone for the last few minutes and, seeming to remember he was holding it, now handed it back. Sherlock accepted it without much thought and slipped it into his trouser pocket.

Lestrade watched the exchange with a slight lift of his browline and shot a questioning glance to John, who just shrugged. Old mates from somewhere, apparently, but beyond that John really had no clue what had prompted Sherlock's trust in the bloke.

"Am I free to go, then?" Crenshaw asked of Lestrade. Free of an object to fret with his hands shifted to lightly pressing his palms together instead. "It's getting a bit late and there's not too many hotels nearby, so..."

Lestrade tucked his notepad away in his coat pocket. "You spoke to someone about lost property?" Crenshaw nodded. "Long as we've got contact information you're welcome to leave, then. Be sure to check any messages. Sherlock, I'll be e-mailing you later and if you've put me in your spam filter again I swear to-"

"Go and oversee your minions, Lestrade. You'll find Donovan's police badge caught on a fence railing near the east entrance." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the milling officers and turned back towards Crenshaw. Lestrade paused a moment, likely meaning to ask after the badge comment, before a voice crackled through the handset on his belt.

_"DI Lestrade, sir, I think I've lost my-"_

Lestrade sighed irritably to himself and turned to walk off, barking a _'fence railing, east entrance'_ into his radio as he went. John was left with Sherlock and Crenshaw once more.

"Well then, shall we-" John started, but Sherlock's attention was elsewhere.

"All the hotels within reasonable distance will have filled up with displaced residents by now," he said to Crenshaw, expression gone somewhere oddly stern mixed with what John could only describe as vague embarrassment. Honestly, his cheeks were even colouring a bit. Whoever this freckled bloke was he'd certainly cornered the market on eliciting uncharacteristic reactions from Sherlock Holmes.

Crenshaw grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck. "God, yeah... I hadn't really budgeted for it but I s'pose I'll have to-"

"Our flat has a sofa."

John startled and looked over to Sherlock, who seemed every bit as taken off-guard by his own words as John was. His eyes widened in alarm but he'd fixed his gaze determinedly on Crenshaw's face, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge that his cheeks had flushed pink and his posture had gone taut again.

Crenshaw's hand froze at the back of his neck and he looked over to Sherlock. "Er..."

"It would be the more logical option considering you're planning to remain in the city for at least a week and don't have the finances for an extended hotel stay nor excessive cab fare," Sherlock rattled off quickly. Trying to save face, it seemed. He was still blushing, though, which rather ruined the attempt. "John and I live in Westminster by the Baker Street tube station."

"Christ, that'd... that'd actually be really convenient?" Crenshaw glanced at the pavement, biting his lip - and bloody hell, but now _he'd_ gone red too? John tried to force the juvenile smirk off his face. Good lord if this was some sort of ex-boyfriend he was never going to let Sherlock hear the end of it.

"It's fine by me," he put in helpfully. "I'm scheduled clinic hours for the next few days anyway, flat'll be empty."

Crenshaw opened his mouth, but Sherlock seemed to have decided already. "Settled, then. I'll fetch a cab." And without waiting for a reply he marched resolutely off to hail a taxi.

John looked after him, then back to Crenshaw. The poor lad's cheeks had gone bright red, palms pressing together in what appeared to be a nervous habit. Despite all efforts not to John found himself smiling in amusement. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and casually allowed his hands to fall into an idle parade rest posture behind his back.

"You two knew each other quite well, then, I'm guessing?" he asked with perhaps a _tad_ more of a teasing inflection to his voice than was strictly necessary... but _really_ now, this was bloody hilarious. Sherlock was behaving like an awkward teenager over some freckled bloke from Lancaster with a working-class accent and sensible trousers. Whatever the history was here it _had_ to involve something scandalous.

"Y-yeah. We were..." Crenshaw glanced up toward Sherlock, now hailing a cab by the kerb several metres off, then looked back to John with a sheepish smile and a shrug. "Erm... housemates? Just for a month or so, back when we were kids."

"Kids?"

"Nineteen, twenty-ish." The young man quirked a small smile to himself and pushed off the bonnet of the squadcar to finally stand on his own two feet, grabbing as he did so the grey coat he'd had lying beside him. "It was a pretty weird time in my life, to be honest. In both our lives."

John wanted to ask him to elaborate, but Sherlock shouted something indistinct, beckoning them impatiently by the roadside where a cab was now pulling up to the kerb. Crenshaw tugged his wool jacket on over his shirt and together they set off toward the taxi.

**««**

Sherlock was stuck somewhere between being very cross with himself and pleased giddiness. On the one hand what in _hell's_ name had prompted him to offer their sofa to someone he hadn't spoken to in nearly a decade, and whom he'd originally known for less than a month!? ... On the other it was _Eric_ and Eric was more or less technically speaking the only serious romantic relationship Sherlock had ever had in his _life_ and for some asinine reason his brain refused to stop falling all to pieces over that fact. And so there he was, trapped vacillating randomly from one emotion to the other like a broken metronome.

Eric grinned as he and John came within speaking distance. "So do you have some kind of obsession with poncy coats, or what? That thing's got to be worth more than my house."

He'd learnt to mask the cockney quite well, hadn't he? Barely perceptible now. Presumably he'd done so for business reasons, make himself sound more trustworthy to clients and employees, facilitate better relationships with investors. A vast improvement over the nigh-incomprehensible jumble of speech Sherlock remembered. Which made this vague sense of disappointment over the lack of slurred nonsense coming out of the man's mouth rather frustratingly confusing. Why did Sherlock _care_ , honestly? He'd hated that stupid accent.

The jab about coats, though... He raised a brow at Eric's attire - brown trousers with a grey woollen peacoat. That jacket had to be at least as expensive as Sherlock's greatcoat, well over the thousand pound range, so the man was hardly in a position to throw stones.

"No more than you, apparently," Sherlock retorted blandly as they climbed into the cab _(John on the end and Eric in the middle seat, somehow, and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why that pleased him so much)_ and let John give the driver directions. Sherlock glanced toward Eric, meaning to ask after his business in London, but was distracted by the man's sleeve. A tear there had been sewn shut at some point, and the material was slightly discoloured, frayed... oh _bloody hell_ , that wasn't just an expensive coat, that was...

"That's- you _kept_ it?"

Eric shot him an embarrassed sidelong look and shrugged. "S'a nice jacket."

"It's been _eight years_ ," Sherlock snapped, disgruntled. How in hell had he even managed to keep the thing in wearable condition after so long!? On the far side of the cab John raised his eyebrows but didn't bother asking what they were on about.

"So what do you do in Lancaster?" the doctor inquired instead, falling easily into his usual role of facilitating elements of social interaction which Sherlock had declared intolerably dull, like small talk. In this case, though, Sherlock found he was rather interested in the answer. Not that he hadn't picked up quite a few clues from Eric's speech and appearance already _(t-shirt from a Lancaster music programme under his half-buttoned overshirt, brief mention of 'woodwinds' and of meeting with suppliers)_ but it would be good to know what he'd been up to. For curiosity's sake, obviously, nothing but a healthy interest in facts.

"I run a music school for kids, teach 'em how to play instruments and sing. It's done really well, actually." Eric smiled, all modest pride, and Sherlock found himself completely lost for what to say. That was... well, it was exactly what Eric would do, wasn't it? And damned to hell if it weren't distressingly endearing. He told himself the pleased flush through his chest was a response to the knowledge that his leftover trust fund money had been put to decent use. Certainly nothing so sentimental as happiness for Eric's success.

"You're a musician, then?" John continued. He'd either not noticed the odd expressions warring for control of Sherlock's face or chosen not to acknowledge them, something Sherlock was rather grateful for.

"Guitarist, yeah. I've picked up enough piano to get by, though, and most everything else in the school. You kinda have to know your way around the basics at the very least if you're looking to hire anyone competent enough to teach."

The conversation from there veered towards things Sherlock was relieved to find extremely dull. Seemed no amount of being disgustingly happy for Eric could make a discussion of financial structuring and client relations halfway interesting, so at least he knew his brain was still functioning normally on _some_ level. By the time they arrived back at the flat he was even beginning to settle back into his usual anti-social mental patterns. Bored, annoyed, crowded. More than ready to be done with all this interacting-with-people nonsense and get back to his work.

Eric trailing after them into the stairwell, though, and John introducing him in passing to Mrs Hudson, somehow conspired to set Sherlock back into a state of awkward fidgeting once more. Concerned for what Eric would think of the flat, of the half-tidy disaster of a sitting room, of the haphazard pile of chemistry supplies on the table. Ugh and the couch was too small to expect someone to sleep on comfortably - why had he offered it in the first place? This was ridiculous, he shouldn't have-

"Hah! Is that a cow skull with headphones on?"

"It's a bison," Sherlock corrected vaguely, speech stuck on autopilot while his brain chased itself in circles. He hung up his coat beside John's and had a brief loss for what to do with his hands before shoving them roughly in his trouser pockets. "... the headphones were a gift from a client."

Eric laughed. "I gotta find one of those things for the school lobby, that's brilliant."

And Sherlock found himself smiling, because _hah_ \- someone else thought the bison was funny. John had been after him to take the headphones off at the very least _(some nonsense about professionalism when clients came round)_ , Mycroft had deemed it unbearably childish while Lestrade seemed to regard it with the same bland exasperation he afforded any other strange whim of Sherlock's. Well sod the lot of them and their stupid opinions - it _was_ brilliant.

Eric was now looking bemusedly to the spraypaint smiley-face on the wall, and Sherlock quickly took it upon himself to explain where _that_ had come from. And the bullet holes. Eric snickered the whole way through.

"Well I mean what else are you gonna do with a can of paint but vandalise a wall?" Eric agreed, grinning. "Good aim on the eye holes though, blimey."

"John was upset about me discharging a weapon indoors."

Eric made a _pfft_ noise and shrugged one shoulder. "Stuff 'im, didn't hurt nobody."

"That's what _I_ said, and Mrs Hudson deducted damages from the rent the next month to cover the plaster repair on the other side so I still don't see what all the fuss was about."

Eric laughed again, and Sherlock smiled. And for just a moment he forgot about the arson case and the nicotine patch starting to wear off on his arm. For a moment he was twenty years old again, not a shred of responsibility to his name and nothing to concern himself with besides making sure he had enough cash to buy a half-gram and a pack of cigs.

And perhaps he could bring himself to admit that those times hadn't been entirely unpleasant. Oh, make no mistake, he'd never want to go back; _nothing_ excused the hellish roller coaster of highs and crashes, constant danger of living amongst criminals, being led around like a dog on a chain on nothing but the promise of more drugs... never, ever again.

But there _had_ been some bright points... one in particular, really. A single upside amidst the disaster of his life back in those days. Freckles and a silly accent, laughing over stupid things they both found funny even when everyone else called them childish. Dark alleys, nicked cigarettes, the smell of marijuana clinging to a mop of messy brown hair...

Sod it all, he'd actually missed this. He'd missed _Eric._

**««**

John wasn't sure he'd ever be able to stop smiling to himself like an idiot. Off in the other room Sherlock was busy explaining where every single odd or out-of-place object in the sitting room had come from, sounding for all the world like an excited little boy, while Crenshaw chimed in with snickering and amused comments every other sentence in a tone every bit as enthused as Sherlock's. Against everything John had come to expect of his flatmate it seemed Sherlock Holmes was actually managing to get on _famously_ with someone. It was both adorable and strangely unsettling all at once.

He wondered if he shouldn't just abandon the tea and disappear to his room, give the two some space to catch up. No sooner had he had the thought, though, than he found himself instead crowded into the kitchen by two exuberant twenty-eight year olds.

"She lets me take body parts from the morgue so long as I promise to bring them back. I've even gotten a severed head before."

"What'd you need a severed head for?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to see if she'd let me have it. Made up some excuse about testing saliva... Here, see, eyeballs!"

Sherlock had been rummaging around in the fridge as he spoke and now emerged with, as promised, a baggie full of eyeballs. Crenshaw laughed and reached out to take the bag.

"Ah gross, they squish!"

"Don't pop them," Sherlock admonished, then squeezed one of them himself and snickered along with Crenshaw when the pupil bulged out.

John leant against the countertop behind him with his arms crossed, watching the display bemusedly. Hadn't even been re-acquainted with the bloke for two hours and already Sherlock had progressed to the rare _'behaving like a schoolboy on a sugar rush'_ level of friendly interaction. And Crenshaw had said they'd been _housemates_? No way. Something more than that, surely...

"John, what did you do with the tongue?" Sherlock was back in the fridge again. John grimaced slightly - that _bloody_ fixation with body parts, good god.

"I gave it back to Molly after you left it in the crisper drawer again," John explained with an annoyed frown. "I told you I was going to."

"What!? No you didn't!" Sherlock stuck his head over the door and pouted at John. Beside him Crenshaw was smirking, expression almost fond.

"You know I did, and I made sure you were paying attention this time so if you've forgotten that's on you."

Sherlock huffed but didn't pursue the matter further. Instead he grabbed the bag of eyeballs back from Crenshaw, tossed them in the fridge _(on their proper shelf, John was relieved to see)_ and turned to drag their guest off toward the rest of the flat.

"Never mind, there's a skeletonised rat in my room-"

Crenshaw's face went faintly pink, making John smirk to himself. Sherlock, of course, completely failed to pick up on the possible implications of leading someone by the hand to his _bedroom_ and remained blithely unconcerned as they left the kitchen.

John lingered behind, shaking his head bemusedly. _Kids._

**««**


	2. Chapter 2

**««**

Sherlock's bedroom was a fair bit tidier than one might have expected.

That was a boring, uneventful, entirely non-scandalous thought, and Eric was doing his best to keep it at the forefront of his mind where it would hopefully drown out other things. Things like finding himself quite unexpectedly hand-in-hand with a bloke he hadn't spoken to in a very, _very_ long time, to whom he owed practically every current success of his life to, and whom he'd honestly expected to never set eyes on again. It was all getting a tad overwhelming.

It seemed like he was only just now beginning to register the reality of who exactly he'd bumped into at that squadcar. For a time there it hadn't been much more than a series of surface reactions - old acquaintance, fine, yes, slip back into friendly banter. _(And slip back into the old accent, irritatingly enough, hadn't done that in bloody years...)_ Being shown around his flat hadn't set the whole thing in stone either; mostly because it was all new things and Sherlock's explanations of everything, while genuinely entertaining, still made it all-too-obvious that he'd moved on from Stockwell just as thoroughly as Eric had. It was reminiscent of meeting a man who only coincidentally looked and sounded like someone you'd once known - the same person, perhaps, but only by technicality.

But this... now suddenly they were holding hands. And personalities evolved, circumstances improved and new careers were built... but the way two peoples' fingers interlocked could never really change. And that, for Eric at the very least, served to snap the whole absurd situation into alarmingly sharp focus.

 _Jesus fuckin' christ, it's really Sherlock_ , his brain informed him _(and oh for god's sake, even his thoughts were reverting to cockney now?)_ and with a sensation of having been thrust out of his own body to watch some surreal play take place he looked away from the framed chemical chart he'd been focussing on. His eyes found Sherlock's, and met what seemed to be an equally shocked expression mirrored in marbled grey-blue.

Wordlessly they both dropped their hands, taking a step apart.

"Er..." Eric started. He hadn't actually thought of anything he might say beyond that, though, and so the sound trailed off into awkward dead air.

Beside him Sherlock's look of vaguely alarmed discomfort seemed to morph all at once into one of studied disinterest. The man wrinkled his nose, glanced pointedly elsewhere, then slipped his hands into his pockets as if he'd meant to do so all along and leant back on his heels. His bearing dropped into a casual, indifferent posture.

"Payback for all the times you dragged me off by the arm," he droned sarcastically. There was a slight flush to his cheeks, belying his aloof routine, which made the charade all the more pointless. Eric furrowed his brows in a sudden burst of exasperation.

"Still doing the whole 'bleeding robot' thing, then," he retorted flatly. Not a question - didn't need to be, the facade was completely sodding obvious. Sherlock startled a tiny bit in response to his angry tone and turned back to blink at him.

"Doing the-?" He cut himself off as Eric just continued to scowl. Sherlock frowned and for a brief, searching second looked to the far wall, lips thinning as if he were mentally weighing some decision. Finally after a pause he set his face in some undefinable expression of sullied annoyance and let all the false poise melt out of his stance.

It was just a series of tiny movements, really - loosening of the shoulders and spine, slight tilt of his head, muscles repositioning - but somehow each shift came together to give the effect of him transforming from an imposing aristocrat to a sulking teenager with the flip of a lightswitch. Mystifying. And every bit as disturbing as Eric remembered. He huffed a quiet laugh.

"Creepy as hell."

"It's a useful tactic," Sherlock snapped defensively, seeming a little embarrassed but no less miffed at having been caught out. "Unless you expect me to somehow intimidate suspects whilst... fidgeting."

As if illustrating the very concept he did some odd thing with his hands and shifted his weight back and forth. Which, granted, did look a tad silly and definitely wasn't ideal for questioning murderers or whatever. Still, though. Eric half-rolled his eyes.

"That don't stop it bein' goddamn unsettlin' t'watch you switch like that. Lay off."

For some reason, instead of countering with an annoyed rebuttal, Sherlock just smirked. Eric blinked and responded with a slight glare.

"What?"

"Your accent's slipped," Sherlock pointed out, his tone just this side of teasing. Eric coloured a bit. For god's- of all the things to change the _bleeding_ subject with it had to be- ugh. Flustered, he nonetheless managed to keep his expression serious, slipped his own hands into his trouser pockets and sized up their current predicament. They now stood rather awkwardly facing each other, stock-still in the middle of the floor beside Sherlock's bed. Things had evidently taken a bit of a turn somewhere.

When he glanced back up Sherlock was still smirking at him. Eric scoffed. "Never said I was trying to hide it."

"No," Sherlock agreed, then fixed him with a supremely smug look. "But of course you've just switched back to Estuary for no particular reason, haven't you? Which along with the way you've been shifting in and out of Cockney speaking patterns at random for the past few hours indicates rather strongly that you've become accustomed to-"

In a flash of annoyed pique Eric reached out and shoved the git's head lightly sideways, cutting off his condescending monologue before it could get properly started. Not hard enough to hurt, of course - just startle the guy, perhaps muss up his hair a bit so he'd look ridiculous. It was something he used to do back in Stockwell on those occasions when Sherlock's coke-fuelled rambling got to be too manic for anyone to follow. Quick jolt to the side of the head, shut the idiot up for long enough to reboot and derail himself from whatever train of thought he'd gotten stuck on. Pretty much always guaranteed to work.

Doing it now hadn't been a conscious action, really, more of a reflex. And the second he drew his hand back Eric found himself worrying if perhaps he'd just crossed a line. That, admittedly, had been _very_ forward... not to mention easily construed as a threat. Subconsciously he braced himself to defend against any forthcoming blows, wary of Sherlock lashing out in anger. He'd never reacted negatively when they were kids, of course, but this was quite a bit different, wasn't it? They were bloody _adults_ now. One didn't go round smacking other grown men upside the head instead of just politely telling them to be quiet, christ.

Far from being provoked, though, Sherlock just blinked, shot a rather petulant glare Eric's way and then brought a hand up to smooth his curls back into place.

"Uncalled for," he grumbled.

"Brought it on yourself," Eric countered with a shrug. A small, faintly relieved quirk of a smile made its way unbidden to his face, the brief jolt of tension melting out of his stance. Sherlock, of course, picked up on his waning discomfort with barely a glance. The man rolled his eyes as he patted down an errant ringlet.

"Oh relax, I'm not going to punch you for messing up my hair," he droned, unimpressed. Eric, unsure of what to say, just shrugged. Couldn't deny being concerned, really; it'd been a legitimate fear.

Hazy recollections of a night years ago swam to the forefront of his brain, making Eric frown to himself - a thug's knife to his throat, thrum of sheer terror in his chest, the boy he'd agreed to date mere hours before standing wraithlike in the street with blood down his face and the hollow gaze of a killer. Stuff of sodding nightmares.

Up to that point Eric had been mostly confident in defining Sherlock as an awkward, fidgety mess. Clearly doing his best to hide behind an aristocrat act, often failing at it. Because at his core the guy was really nothing more than an overgrown child, wasn't he? A kid playing grown-up? He could never be anything _dangerous._

But in those few minutes in the street, as he watched Sherlock's restless warmth be eclipsed by cold steel fury, cowered whilst the coke-addled toff proceeded to dispatch three armed thugs without the slightest pause for fear or mercy... suddenly Eric hadn't been so sure. Sherlock in that instant had been bloody _terrifying_. And Eric couldn't help but wonder... was that the man's true face? Which was the act, here: the childish prat or the soulless monster? How could one ever be sure they weren't being fooled by the mask of a psychopath?

For the next few days he'd fretted over the problem like a nervous tic. Eventually, though, he'd been able to convince himself to calm down. Sherlock's bouts of behaving like a robot were comfortingly predictable and quite plainly guileless. Mostly centred around avoiding social anxiety, it seemed, harmless enough to spark a sense of fond exasperation. Eric had soon found himself reassured enough to stop worrying about the threat of unexpected violence. His boyfriend wouldn't snap - the bloke was _quirky_ , yes, but not insane. Everything was fine. For a while he'd even allowed himself to dream of a future together. Something like mutual happiness, he supposed, unsullied by the grim reality of lengthening criminal records and the looming threat of prison. It could happen.

Then, of course, Ben had been killed. And Sherlock had... christ.

With a small sigh Eric took a few steps backward and let himself drop to a seat on Sherlock's bed. The brief atmosphere of levity drained from the room like a punctured flask.

Sherlock shifted, expression going a bit nervous. "Really, I wouldn't."

"I know." Eric huffed and flipped a hand in vague explanation for some abstract idea he couldn't quite convey. All the excitement of the last few hours seemed to be catching up to him at once. He managed to dredge up a tired smile to show Sherlock nothing was seriously wrong, though it dropped after a short beat. "If it were anyone else, though..."

"Anyone else and I'd have dodged." Sherlock frowned with an air as if he thought that point should have been obvious. He rocked back on his heels in doubt for a second, then, seeming to decide something, strode over to his chest of drawers and began rummaging around.

"What're y'doin'?" Eric asked, watching as Sherlock dug around in what appeared to be an excessively well-organised sock drawer.

"Accent," Sherlock replied teasingly. Eric scowled, spent a brief moment resisting the impulse to chuck something at the git, then flung the nearest pillow.

"What. Are. You. Doin- _g_ ," he repeated in as clear a pronunciation as he could possibly force out his windpipe. Sherlock smirked and, presumably in retaliation for the pillow which had just hit him in the spine, turned to toss a bundle of clothes directly towards Eric's face.

"You stink of wood smoke and you're getting soot all over my duvet, go and have a bloody shower." His tone was clearly meant to be snippy but lost quite a bit on the delivery as he failed to suppress a snicker over the fact that the pyjama trousers he'd thrown had landed with one leg draped over Eric's head. After quickly composing himself he turned towards his window and gestured dismissively to the hall. "Down the hall to the right, shouldn't be difficult to find."

Eric gathered up the scattered clothes and rolled his eyes. "I'll pretend that's you bein' considerate."

Jabs aside, though, the thought of a shower did sound bloody heavenly. He dragged himself to a standing position and, stifling a yawn, made his way out the door.

**««**

Sherlock watched Eric's blurry reflection disappear into the hall, then turned to lean with his back against the glass. His hands had found their way back to his pockets somehow while his heel shifted to rest on the wall, toe of his shoe tapping against the hardwood a few times as he stared down at the floor pattern in thought.

"Erm."

There was a slight knock on the open panel of the door, someone clearing their throat. Sherlock lifted his gaze to find John standing just outside the room looking vaguely awkward.

"I was going to ring for a Chinese or something, there's not much in," the man offered in explanation for why he was hovering there. He glanced around the room, apparently searching for their guest, then looked back to Sherlock. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied easily. He felt his own posture begin to shift into aloof poise; default behaviour when speaking to John. _Why_ , though? He'd told Eric the tactic was for intimidating witnesses, not... ugh. Ridiculous. As if proving some internal point to himself he mentally switched the whole process off, felt his stance drop back into whatever graceless nonsense he'd been standing in before. There. Perfectly normal. Not using an act on his flatmate. As if he'd ever need to.

In the doorway John blinked.

"Right, then..." the doctor hummed, drawing out the 'R' - plainly he'd noticed Sherlock's odd shifts in bearing, deliberated on a reaction then chosen not to comment. Instead he glanced over his shoulder toward the hall. "Crenshaw's gone off somewhere?"

"I told him to have a shower, he smelt like a chimney sweep."

Hm, well. This was actually quite disconcerting, wasn't it? Speaking casually to John without doing the whole... what did Eric always insist on calling it? _Robot thing?_ Moronic. Nevertheless Sherlock was finding himself having to actively avoid letting his mannerisms creep into a pre-built persona of any sort. Which was absurd as there was no plausible reason to need to keep up appearances for a man he _lived_ with - not when he often wandered about the flat in his pyjamas whingeing about boredom, at any rate. John hadn't had reasonable cause to be intimidated by Sherlock in bloody ages.

But then again there _was_ a rather stark difference between dashing around being royally ticked off at the world for not producing enough excitement and... whatever this was. Standing about by the window looking probably quite pathetic, tapping his foot with his hands in his pockets and staring at the floor. Definitely abnormal. John would think him lost or confused, preoccupied... emotionally compromised. Which was ridiculous, of course, as Sherlock didn't _do_ emotions. He had complete control over his mental space, didn't he? Sociopath. Yes.

And _being_ a sociopath meant that he could choose not to feel anything at all. He could _choose_ not to be tempted to dwell on Eric's brief flash of fearful wariness and he could _choose_ to forget their whole history together and he could _choose_ to go back to being the impregnable fortress of disinterest John expected him to be. All it would take was a mental flip of a switch. One quick shift and he'd be back to his usual self, easy as anything.

Or... he could also choose to keep leaning on the window looking like a pillock. Which his brain had apparently somehow declared the better option, because despite all efforts to do otherwise his posture didn't shift out of a casual slouch and he kept on tapping his foot. Aggravating.

John, for his part, hadn't yet moved from the door frame. Sherlock was too busy being nebulously frustrated by the actions of his own physical shell to really pay the other man much heed.

Eventually, though, he heard John clear his throat.

"You two weren't just housemates."

Sherlock glanced up from where he'd been studying the hardwood again and furrowed his brows at John's odd expression. It was a look more appropriate to a sarcastically-teasing Lestrade than any of the doctor's usual moods.

"Sorry?" he asked, not immediately seeing the point of John's statement.

John shifted to lean on the door frame and crossed his arms, smirking. Which was a very strange expression to see on John's face; hopefully he'd stop in short order. Actually, no... scratch that, he should bloody well quit right now. Sherlock frowned in vague disgruntlement and spoke up before the other could answer.

"Stop making that face."

John's distressing smirk widened into a fuller, far less unsettling smile _(vastly more appropriate to his facial features)_ and he shook his head with a small chuckle as he shifted his weight against the door.

"Housemates," he repeated, getting back to the topic he'd broached. "Crenshaw said you'd just lived together. But it was a bit more than that, wasn't it?"

Sherlock frowned. Eric had spoken to John alone? When? "I don't think it's really any of your business."

"Oh, no, course it isn't." John held up his hands and smiled, poorly stifling another chuckle. "Still, though... nice to see. Great Sherlock Holmes, reuniting with an ex. Same old silly drama as the rest of us."

"There hasn't been any _drama_. I just leant him some clothes and told him to have a shower. Aren't you the one always going on about being hospitable?"

"That'd be Mrs. Hudson, actually." John lifted his good shoulder in a bland shrug... then smirked again. Equally disturbing the second time round. Sherlock glared in response. "And no, clearly there's not been drama," John continued. "You're only standing about your bedroom looking like a lovelorn teenager. Nothing odd there."

"Shut up."

John just snorted mirthfully to himself and turned to amble off toward the sitting room. After a scant few steps though he paused mid-stride and turned back round.

"Oh, I really was going to ring for a Chinese. Is the regular alright, or...?"

"It's fine. Eric's fond of pork fried rice so add it as a side dish or something."

Abruptly John was grinning again. "See, the fact that you _know_ that..."

"I'm an observational genius, why wouldn't I remember someone's culinary preferences?" Sherlock finally got round to pushing himself off the window to stand upright, training a look of general annoyance on the world at large. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and tried not to acknowledge the undertone of defensiveness in his posture or voice.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you deleted the entire _solar system_ and constantly mix up what year it is?" John, mercifully, had resumed his travel to the sitting room, which meant Sherlock could now indulge in his juvenile temptation to silently flip the man off without being spotted. "What was it you said about memory, though?" John added over his shoulder. "Only keep the things that matter?"

Sherlock scowled but chose not to dignify that with a response. Glaring at the chuckling, retreating form of his flatmate he took a few long strides forward, grabbed the edge of his bedroom door and smartly snapped it shut. A split-second later, however, he reopened it a crack.

"Let me know when the food arrives."

"Expect you'll deduce that when the doorbell rings."

With an irritated huff Sherlock snapped the door shut again. After a few beats glaring petulantly at the panelling he took a few steps to the side, let himself flop backwards onto his bed, and glowered instead at the ceiling. His hands came up to rest fingertip-to-fingertip under his chin in a habitual posture.

 _Drama_... there hadn't been any bloody drama. Stupid.

**««**


	3. Chapter 3

**««**

John looked up from the phone in his hand just in time to catch the tall form of what he could only assume to be Crenshaw shuffle blearily into the sitting room.

Making a definite identification was a bit difficult, as the lad had one of Sherlock's dark blue towels over his head and was busily scrubbing it through his hair. Dotted constellations of freckles up both his arms were clearly visible in his new short-sleeved attire, however, which consisted of a faded old t-shirt and a pair of Sherlock's pyjama trousers, so he was fairly certain in his assumption of who it was.

As he set the phone down John had a bit of a double-take at the choice of shirt - it bore the logo of some vaguely punk-looking music group, stark green and black against a brown backdrop. Was that a spare Crenshaw'd had with him, or...?

"Tch... he bleedin' knows I hate these sods and he goes and digs one'a their shirts out anyhow," Crenshaw muttered grumpily to himself as he tugged the towel off his head. His hair now stuck up in all directions round his skull, a halo of damp brown tufts.

"I... didn't realise Sherlock listened to anything composed after the 18th century," John replied with a blink. "That's really his shirt?"

Crenshaw scoffed slightly and rolled his eyes. "Course it's his. That or he's taken to nicking clothes off folks with the same awful taste in music as he has."

John quirked a bewildered smile. Secret life of Sherlock Holmes, he supposed... clandestinely listening to strange rock groups, apparently with enough enthusiasm to hunt down band logo shirts which he then never deigned to wear in public. Good _lord_ , John had learnt more distressingly human facts about his flatmate in the last few hours than he'd managed to pick up over the course of an entire bloody year co-habitating with the man.

While John's mind was occupied being helplessly amused by the thought of Sherlock having musical interests beyond the scope of romance-era classical composers, Crenshaw had fallen to awkwardly glancing around the sitting room.

"Er... I don't suppose you'd have any spare blankets, then?" the man asked after a pause. John jumped a bit, realising that was _probably_ something he should have thought to fetch earlier, and hurriedly set down the phone to make his way to the linen cupboard in the hall.

"Right, yes! Sorry. Just in here," he tossed over his shoulder in passing. Crenshaw turned to amble after him, the lad's hands fidgeting idly with the towel still gripped between them.

"Don't bother," a deep voice cut in. John and Crenshaw both looked up to see Sherlock emerge from his bedroom. He stopped a few steps out of the doorframe and gestured back the way he'd come with his shoulder. "I've got a case on anyway. Less bother to use a bed already made than faff about with the spare linens."

John raised his eyebrows, unable to keep the amusement off his face - inviting a bloke to sleep in your _bed_ , Sherlock? Housemates indeed. Beside him he caught Crenshaw's cheeks colouring in a vaguely indignant look.

"I ain't sleepin' in your _bed_ , christ." The boy's accent had slipped quite a few notches into cockney in flustered annoyance - a fact Sherlock seemed to find highly amusing judging by his expression.

"We shared a room for several weeks without incident, I don't see how this is any different."

"We, that was-" Crenshaw sputtered, face going a deep beet red, but quickly seemed to collect himself with an exasperated glare. "We haven't spoken in _eight years_ , you twat, that's a _bit_ of a bloody gap to just ignore. Especially when we only dated a month!"

Hah! _Dated!_ They _were_ ex-boyfriends! John did his best to smother the childish grin but of course Sherlock spotted it. The man fixed him with an annoyed glare.

"John, if you don't stop making that face I'm going to spike your morning tea with capsaicin."

Crenshaw seemed to startle a bit and shot a look towards John, whereupon the lad's indignant expression morphed into something much more anxious.

"Ah... sorry," he muttered, darting a glance to Sherlock. "I wasn't sure if y'were-"

Sherlock cut him off with a dismissive flip of his hand. "I'm not, or wasn't, but that's irrelevant as John would have pieced things together in short order regardless. He's evidently got the whole picture now and is behaving like a juvenile moron because he finds the idea of my having been romantically involved with someone hilarious."

"That's not true," John objected, though it very much was. "I'm just pleased to know you've been, er... active, so to speak. Mycroft did sort of imply you were a-"

" _Mycroft_ ," Sherlock snapped, cutting John off. "... does not have the faintest idea of what I did during my early twenties. And I'd appreciate his remaining ignorant on the matter."

"You just don't want to have to tell your brother you dated a cockney bloke with freckles," John countered with what definitely wasn't a snort of mirth. Beside him Crenshaw's expression quickly drifted towards the affronted end of the spectrum.

"I'm standing right here, you know," the boy pointed out.

"Sorry," John offered in a tone anything but.

Sherlock huffed a put-upon sigh and turned back to his ex. "Do you want my bed or not?"

"Not with you in it." Crenshaw's answer was decidedly stern but his cheeks had flushed crimson, making John wonder how firm his stance on that really was. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Obviously not. I said earlier - I've got a case on."

"He doesn't sleep when he's working," John offered helpfully. "Nor eat," he added with a disapproving frown towards Sherlock, who met him with a flat look.

"Puerile infant or clucking mother hen, John. Kindly choose one or the other."

"Bleedin' christ," Crenshaw breathed in a tired huff, one hand going to shove through his still-damp hair. He quickly lowered the limb to rub at his eyes instead. "I... s'pose I'll take the bed, if no one's usin' it. You stay the _hell_ out, though." He punctuated the order by jabbing a finger in Sherlock's direction. "This ain't turnin' into a repeat of... everything."

"God forbid," Sherlock drawled. "John, the door."

John blinked. "The-?" He was cut off by the buzzer ringing loudly from the other room. "... door. Right, I've got it."

As he descended the stairs he glanced back over his shoulder - Sherlock and Crenshaw were staring each other down with an intensity that bordered on the obscene. John snickered to himself. Oh, this was _definitely_ going in his blog.

**««**

Sherlock frowned and flicked a glance sidelong towards the distinct sound of John sniggering from the stairwell. Eric, he noted through some odd peripheral sense, mirrored his actions almost exactly. They both looked back to each other in near-tandem.

"Your flatmate's kind've..." Eric started, then trailed off with an unsure half-grimace. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed gently past the other man to head into the sitting room.

"Just ignore him," he grumbled over his shoulder. Eric would follow him, obviously, so he carried on speaking without bothering to turn around to check if he still had an audience. "John's an incorrigible gossip, especially when it comes to anything I happen to be involved with. You should see his bloody _blog_ , for god's sake - the whole thing's nothing but write-ups of my cases."

Behind him Sherlock heard Eric snort in bland amusement. "So pretty much exactly your type, then?"

"What?" Sherlock finally reached the music stand he'd been headed for and shot a quizzical look at Eric. "The man's over a decade my senior, I'd hardly call tha-"

"No, no! Not like that," Eric clarified, making a disgusted face. "I meant he's obsessed with you and willing to have his ear talked off. Which you damn well _love_ cause you're a bleedin' narcissist."

"Oh... well, yes, in that sense I suppose he fills a certain role." Sherlock paused in the midst of picking up his violin to raise a brow at his guest. "Since when do you use words like 'narcissist'?"

Eric looked vaguely offended. "I do _read_ , you arse."

"Didn't used to." Plucking at a string to check the pitch, Sherlock parroted a ridiculous sing-song version of cockney. _"Oh, no, I never bovvered with Shakespeare, all them bleedin' words!"_

"That doesn't count, I was stoned to hell when I said that. And your cockney's utter crap."

"Better than your RP."

"Like I'd ever wanna sound like a poncy-"

"Here we are, then!" John interrupted, appearing at the doorway with his head down as he rummaged through the takeaway bag in his hands. "Er... this one's yours, I think."

Eric blinked and accepted the styrofoam container being thrust in his direction. Sherlock waved his off. Not eating, obviously. He had a, er... case on. Yes.

Well... didn't _really_ , of course. Not technically speaking, anyway. Arson was solved, more or less, just waiting on an arrest now. But who cared, that was irrelevant - surely he could find something else to occupy himself overnight. Give Eric a chance to get a proper rest in a _bed_ instead of the stupid sofa, thing was far too small for a grown adult to find comfortable. Why he'd ever offered it in the first place he had no idea.

Realising he'd picked up his violin for no real reason Sherlock glanced down to his hands, frowned, then set the instrument back in its case. Wandered over to his laptop instead. He'd perhaps had a vague idea he might play a concerto, but with the room occupied by... well. No, checking his email would be a far more productive use of his time.

"Aw, I thought you were gonna play something," Eric piped up from the spot he'd taken on the sofa.

"I prefer not to serenade a crowded room," Sherlock explained vaguely as he flipped the lid of his laptop up. John snorted from his armchair.

"Bollocks you don't, you love an audience." After a short beat the doctor grinned to himself, then leant forward in his chair to point his fork in Sherlock's direction. "No, _you_ just don't want to accidentally start playing something sappy in front of-"

"How's the _girlfriend_ , John?" Sherlock broke in, tilting his head quizzically towards the man. "Broken up with you yet? Oh, no, you've still not found another one since Big-Nose. Sarah's still available, you know. Pining over you." John's expression was darkening into an angry glower, which was exactly the reaction Sherlock had been going for, so he quirked a deliberately infuriating smirk and turned his head fully to face his flatmate. Hah, found _just_ the right sore spot to jab, as usual - served John right for being such a bloody juvenile over the last few hours. A distinct hint of smugness crept into his voice as Sherlock continued on. "Can't imagine _why_ , of course, you were clearly a poor match. But then she always did show an alarming tendency towards- hey!"

"Can I use this? Thanks." Eric had risen from his seat whilst Sherlock was busy speaking and, leaning right over Sherlock's shoulder, plucked the laptop out from under his hands. The freckled man set it down on the opposite side of the table and took a seat in the chair there, casually eating from the styrofoam takeaway box while he used his unoccupied hand to operate the machine.

Sherlock fixed his guest with an affronted glare, but Eric just smiled politely at him over the screen before going back to whatever he was doing.

"Carry on, mate, just checkin' my email," he said, waving a hand in preoccupied dismissal.

"Use your phone!" Sherlock snapped. John, on the other side of the room, had swiftly gotten over Sherlock's attempt to offend him and was now grinning to himself as he ate his meal.

"Nah, laptop's easier." Eric glanced across the table again, then used his fork to gesture vaguely towards John as he quirked an amused smile. "Carry on, then."

Sherlock scowled. Eric knew full-well he'd already lost his train of thought, the meddling arse.

"If you wanted me to shut up you could have just said so."

Eric took another bite of rice. "No, I really did need to check my email."

Sherlock huffed a short, grumbling sigh, then with a petulant glower he leant forward to pluck Eric's meal container and fork out of his hands in retaliation. Eric frowned up at him as Sherlock flopped back in his chair and took a bite of the other man's fried rice, expression making it clear this was payback.

From John's end of the room came the distinct _beep_ of a cameraphone, and Sherlock whipped his head up just in time to see his flatmate lowering his mobile to chuckle at the photo display.

"Is this that blog you were talking about?" Eric piped up before Sherlock could lob any scathing remarks John's way. Sherlock looked back around, brows furrowed - how...? Oh, wait, right. He'd had John's blog open in another tab. Eric must have switched windows and seen it. " _'A Study in Pink'_...?" Eric went on bemusedly.

"That was-" John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Oh let me tell the story, John, you always muck up the details." He leant forward to set Eric's food back on the table, then steepled his fingers. He flashed a rather egotistical little smirk over at Eric when the man glanced up at him.

"It began," Sherlock intoned grandly, "with a series of suicides..."

**««**

Sherlock's bed smelt like him.

Eric frowned into the pillow, then huffed a tired sigh and rolled over onto his back instead. He let one of his arms flop over the side of the mattress while the other rested loosely over his chest. Above him the ceiling loomed dark and indistinct, shifting wisps of ambient light making the walls look like a vast expanse of living shadow.

Dr Watson, as Sherlock's flatmate was apparently called, had extricated himself from the animated conversation they'd all three fallen into after Sherlock started telling stories about his detective cases nearly four hours ago. It'd taken about forty-five minutes for Eric to even notice the man had gone. And then another half hour after _that_ he'd finally clued in to the fact that it was going on midnight and he still had business meetings scheduled for the next day.

Losing track of the time wasn't something Eric did often - even back when he'd spent the majority of his days stoned out of his skull he'd still somehow always managed to keep a consistent internal clock. Because knowing how long he'd been doing things, the when and where and why of the world, had always seemed to give him that tiny sense of stability he otherwise found lacking so often in his life. It was his safety net; a tether to sanity.

Over the decades only a very small number of things had ever taken that all-important awareness of time away from him. One was the medication he'd been forced into taking after Mum finally snapped, which was why he'd so quickly abandoned the stuff in favour of weed. The other was... well…

The other was being smitten. Really, properly, head-over-heels, _falling_ for someone. In love. Like a giddy schoolgirl.

He scowled viciously to himself and brought his hands up to cover his face, sighing in exasperation. Alright, mate, _no_. Get it together. Starting to sound like one of those bloody teen gossip rags Missy was always reading. He was not about to _fall in love_ with a bloke he'd dated for all of a month, had met while _stoned_ , even, and whom he'd only been reunited with for a few hours _eight sodding years_ later. That was absurd.

No, Sherlock was just distracting him from keeping proper track of the time because the guy was a complete nutter, not because Eric still felt anything for him. Plus there'd also been the fire, hadn't there, and Mick disappearing so really it was no _wonder_ Eric's head was falling a bit to pieces right now. Nothing whatsoever to do with the giant prat in the other room. Just normal everyday nerves, that was all.

With a glower for his own scattered thoughts Eric rolled over to his side and flopped his head down on the _(Sherlock's, shut up, damn it all the fabric smells like his bloody hair)_ pillow. He glared into the darkness of the room for a moment - then gasped as a sudden spike of terrified panic shot through his chest. The shadows were staring back at him.

" _Je_ -sus fucking _christ!_ " he yelped, scrambling up into a sitting position and scuttling backwards to the other side of the mattress. The eyes in the shadows blinked.

"Sorry," a deep voice said. Sherlock's willowy form seemed to coalesce out of the aether as he stepped forward into a pool of weak light from the streetlamp outside the window. He looked vaguely irked by Eric's shouting. And, despite his apology, not the least bit contrite. "Forgot I'd left a file in here."

"So instead'a knocking on th'door you fuckin' _snuck in_ while I slept!?" Eric barked, scandalised.

Sherlock shrugged. "Didn't seem worth waking you." He strode over to a table on the far end of the room and began shuffling through a pile of papers and folders there. "Though I suppose that concern was rather unwarranted, seeing as how you appear to be suffering from a bout of insomnia. Anxiety?"

" _No_ ," Eric snapped. He leant one elbow on his half-bent knee, pinched the bridge of his nose in tired vexation. "No. I'm on meds for that now, thanks. Not that it's any of your business."

"What, then?" Sherlock picked up a sheaf of looseleaf print and idly flipped through it.

" _Nothin'_ , god. I was thinking about..." A pregnant pause as Eric forced himself not to say the trite, and very embarrassing, _'you'_ which would have ended that sentence. He cleared his throat instead, dropped his hand from his face to scowl awkwardly toward the window. "Er... finances."

Sherlock turned and raised a brow at him, clearly unconvinced. Eric met his gaze with a glare, cheeks flushing, and wordlessly dared the git to challenge his lie.

After a second Sherlock seemed to catch on to some hidden detail; his mouth opened in a small _oh_ of realisation as a slightly surprised look crept over his features. Eric's glare immediately shifted into flat exasperation - oh for christ's _sake_. He'd forgotten Sherlock could damn near read peoples' thoughts in their body language. Not remotely fair.

"Is it even worth telling you not to do that?" he grumbled, lowering his face to rest the side of his forehead heavily in the palm of one hand.

"Really can't help it when you're broadcasting like a neon sign," Sherlock replied with a half-shrug of his shoulder which had probably been intended as flippant, but which came off more like an awkward fidget than anything. He cleared his throat and fiddled with the packet of paper he was holding as his eyes flicked back to Eric's tired gaze.

Eric sighed again, rubbing at his eyelids in exhaustion. _Sherlock_ , god. What an arse.

"... the sodding bed smells like you," he finally admitted in a flat mumble.

"It's my bed," Sherlock pointed out. Eric opened his eyes again to shoot the man an unimpressed stare, which was met with nothing but a look of blank confusion. "... I really don't know what else you were expecting."

"I wasn't- _god._ " Eric threw his arms up, letting himself flop backwards onto the mattress. He sighed angrily at the ceiling. "I weren't expectin' anything _different_ , I dunno. It's just... bloody distracting, is all. Can't sleep."

"You could move to the sofa," Sherlock offered.

"Yeah, because bein' _in the same room as you_ is definitely gonna help."

"Would it?" Sherlock asked, sounding a bit bewildered. "I thought you were-"

"Sarcasm."

"Oh."

An awkward silence stretched between them for several seconds. Finally Eric lifted his head, catching sight of Sherlock staring at him with a look like he thought Eric might spontaneously combust if he said anything untoward. They held each other's gaze for a few quiet beats before Eric finally dragged himself back upright. He leant his forearms heavily on his knees and eyed his long-ex boyfriend with a calculating frown.

God, this whole ridiculous situation... what was a bloke even supposed to _do_?

Though of course, the frank truth of the matter was that Eric knew exactly what to do - or knew what he _wanted_ to do, anyway. Pretty much what he'd wanted all bloody night long. But he couldn't be sure if he'd be making an enormous mistake by going with that immediate gut impulse. This wasn't some drug-addled uni dropout anymore, after all, but a respected detective. Not a man to be trifled with. And, yet, he was also... he was also _Sherlock_ , so... ugh. Damn it, why did this all have to be so difficult!?

As Eric's internal debate with himself waged on the silence around them continued unabated, creeping out to fill all the spaces of the room like an overstretched balloon. Sherlock, doubtless made antsy by the stillness, fidgeted with his papers.

"... I won't punch you," he finally muttered in a quiet voice. Eric blinked and, glancing up, huffed a small laugh. Sherlock answered with a smile. His expression still looked a bit confused and uncertain, perhaps even wary, but his hands were no longer compulsively fiddling with the printouts in his hands - probably a good sign, that. Meant he wasn't really on-edge or nervous anymore, just alert. Trying to figure out what was going on.

And, well... sod it, then, Eric decided with a shake of his head. Might as well take this opportunity while he still had it. He'd be furious with himself for _ages_ if he didn't. With a determined set to his jaw he leant forward to grab Sherlock firmly by the hand, threw his weight backwards and physically _dragged_ the idiot down on top of him.

"Oof!" Sherlock exclaimed as his papers went flying. He landed hard on the mattress in a jumble of limbs, huffing a surprised expletive, plainly unenthusiastic about his new predicament. Eric ignored his flailing attempt to get back upright and instead grabbed the git round the midsection in a tight, almost desperate hug.

"I missed you, you goddamned prat," he mumbled into Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock coughed, apparently a bit winded by the fall _(or the hug, which admittedly may have been cutting off his air supply)_ , and snaked an arm round to awkwardly pat Eric on the back.

"I, er... missed you too," he replied in bewilderment. "Is there a reason you felt a need to-?"

"Shut up, we're hugging," Eric grumbled.

"... Alright."

**««**


	4. Chapter 4

**««**

"This is going to wrinkle my suit coat," Sherlock pointed out after a good minute or so of letting Eric hug him. Not exactly the most appropriate thing to say given the context, but he'd found the subsequent stretch of silence between them too confusing not to break.

Sherlock honestly had no idea what had prompted this whole business, the chain of consequences leading up to it... and that was nothing short of disconcerting. What had been the order of events, here? Accidentally scare the living daylights out of the man, apologise for doing so, proceed to have a vaguely awkward conversation, and then... hugs? No, that didn't seem like a logical progression of action at all. Something had to have gone terribly wrong. Perhaps Eric had suffered a small brain aneurysm? Temporary insanity?

Still, though, whatever the reasoning, their current predicament wasn't exactly... unpleasant. Far from it, actually. Sherlock was surprised to find himself rather pleased by the situation. But then that was ridiculous, wasn't it? He was Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath. He didn't _do_ affection. Hugging, hand-holding, human contact... all pointless rubbish. Should put a stop to this right now, had no need of such nonsense.

On the other hand, however, perhaps _Eric_ needed it. He'd initiated this after all. What, then, a comforting gesture of some sort? Seeking solace after all the stress of the arson and being questioned by police? Seemed likely. In that case... well, it would probably be more altruistic to let him carry on.

And if that particular brand of altruism happened to carry with it a not-insignificant desire on Sherlock's part to continue being pressed up against the warmth of one of the very few human beings in the world he'd ever deemed worthy of trust... well, it didn't have to mean anything. Just a basic biochemical response to human contact, wasn't it? Serotonin, dopamine... nothing but neurochemicals. He was fine.

His _suit coat_ , though, really. Rather not have to iron it in the morning.

"Take it off, then," Eric replied, face still buried against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock huffed.

"Difficult proposition when you're busy clinging to me like a koala."

Eric finally loosened his grip and leant back to blink at Sherlock bemusedly. "... a _koala_?"

"Like those... the things on the pencils, you know," Sherlock explained, not entirely sure what he was even on about. Quickly he shuffled out of his jacket, tossed it in the approximate direction of his closet, and toed his shoes off at the same time. Sod it, might as well lie down properly.

"Pencils?" Eric repeated, his tone suggesting serious contemplation of the theory that hugging Sherlock may have perhaps driven the man mad. "Wait, hang on... I just thought it were weird you'd reference a koala. Now I ain't got no bleedin' clue what you even think the things are."

Sherlock scowled. "I know what koalas are."

Eric looked dubious, but before he could reply Sherlock let himself fall sideways over the other man's legs to land with a soft _fwump_ on his pillow. After a pause to consider the propriety of his next actions _(and then to immediately decide he didn't care)_ he grabbed Eric's arm and dragged the freckled moron down beside him. Eric made a disgruntled noise as he was forced to quickly disentangle his legs from under Sherlock's, lest he end up with a joint or two out of place, but within seconds they'd managed to get comfortably situated in a far less haphazard position than they'd been in previously.

"This really isn't a proper solution to the whole _bed smells like you_ issue," Eric mumbled in half-hearted objection to their new arrangement. He'd ended up with his head on Sherlock's chest again, the top of his skull just under the curve of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock rested his chin on the other's hair and frowned to himself. Hang on a moment, now wait... how'd he ended up in bed with Eric? Had he really just chosen to escalate the situation? _Why_? Wasn't the least bit dignified, this - limbs tangled up like a pair of teenagers, spread out across a bed that'd never had occasion to house more than one occupant, rumpling both their clothes and the sheets in equal measure. Such complete loss of decorum should be bothering him _far_ more than it currently was.

Over the course of his life Sherlock had grown accustomed to always keeping up appearances. Accepted without thought the bevy of small, inconsequential lies he maintained for the benefit of those he interacted with. He knew how most people perceived him, could usually deduce what they wanted to hear, determine which words or behavioural patterns would be most advantageous for his reputation... predict what he'd be mocked for. Prior experiences had given him a fairly solid idea of which aspects of himself needed to be hidden for the purposes of sanity, what gave him the best chances of survival in a social climate. A clear framework for the personality he could safely present to outsiders.

Being frequently bewildered by his own actions was one of those unfortunate facets of his existence which he'd learnt early on to conceal at all costs. Who would ever respect a man who kept finding himself having to use context clues to piece together why in blazes he'd got up and walked into another room, after all? Or who couldn't seem to maintain a consistent sense of the passage of time no matter how often he checked his watch? Absent-minded, scatterbrained... no, _god_ , unacceptable. Best to just hide it. Let them all think him in control, even when he felt like a blind rat stumbling through fog. No one's business but his own.

Hardly needed to be giving out any more ammunition against himself, anyway, what with the constant derision of _freak_ and _psycho_ still being flung in his face on a regular basis _._ Those insults he had ample practise with - barely even acknowledged them anymore, lifelong repetition having long ago stripped the words of all meaning. But others... if someone were to catch on to the ruse, realise he'd never been quite as self-assured as he made out to be, found an invective to encompass that personal failing... he didn't even want to try predicting his reaction to such a scenario. Likely sheer panic. Not an appealing mental image. Keep the secret under careful guard, then, never let it slip.

Thinking of all this, and without really knowing what he'd meant to say, Sherlock found himself opening his mouth.

"I have no idea how this happened," he admitted. Then scrunched up his face in utter confusion, because why in _hell's name_ had he let Eric know that? Hadn't he just...? Oh for god's sake, why was he still talking? "... I'm fairly sure I just came in here to fetch the case file with the eye-maggots. Now suddenly I'm in bed with you. This doesn't make any sense."

"Life's a bleedin' mystery," Eric countered blandly.

No attempt whatsoever to twist the admission into mockery. Nor even to question why Sherlock, by all rights a bloody supergenius, would have trouble following a chain of events which had occurred less than five minutes ago. Just... casual acceptance. Unconsciously Sherlock's arms tightened around the other man's shoulders in a hug he hadn't meant to give.

After another silent moment between them Sherlock frowned. Eric's breathing was growing suspiciously regular, settling into a steady pattern of slumber. He drew back to try to get a look at the man's face but couldn't quite manage the proper angle.

"Are you falling asleep?" he asked instead.

"Dunno," Eric mumbled. "Maybe...?"

Words slurred a bit, poor enunciation - definitely slipping into unconsciousness. Well that wasn't bloody fair at all, Sherlock was still pinned to the mattress. How the hell was he meant to get up without waking Eric later?

"Let me up," Sherlock demanded, trying to shove his companion off. In response freckled arms tightened more firmly around his torso to trap him decisively in place.

"No."

Another half-hearted shove, then he simply huffed a frustrated sigh to himself and let his body go limp. Eric snuggled into his chest like a child with a teddy bear. Sherlock grumbled something indistinct about _clingy juvenile morons_ , but try as he might there was no real venom to the words. He just couldn't seem to bring himself to be all that upset by any of this. Perhaps because this was the longest bout of sustained contact with another human being Sherlock could recall having had in several years, which was causing the ancient social primate portions of his brain to release a flood of dopamine. Or... perhaps because Eric was really quite warm, and there'd been a bit of a draft out in the sitting room? Or maybe because it would be too much bother to move. One of those, anyway.

He'd explain it all to himself later on, he knew. Always did. Stripped his more distressingly human actions of all sentiment to make it easier to slot into a mental paradigm. Fit the careful persona he'd built.

For now, though... well, sod it, he'd not actually been planning to stay up all night anyway. A quick kip would accomplish the same task whether he took it on the sofa or his bed. And in an hour or so Eric would have sunk deep enough in slumber to make it possible to slip out the room without waking him. So Sherlock would simply take a brief rest now, no longer than absolutely necessary, then wake up a short time later to extricate himself before morning. Easy.

With a soft huff of a sigh he let his eyes slip closed.

An hour's nap, that was all. Then he'd leave.

**««**

"Sherlock, put a pot of tea on would you?"

John grumbled his words blearily into the silence of early dawn as he shuffled into the sitting room the next morning. He cracked a wide yawn, stretched his back and rubbed at his eyes. Needed a cuppa. Caffeine, spot of breakfast, get himself going for the day.

With a frown John realised his flatmate hadn't yet responded to him. He opened both eyes and blinked several times to clear his vision of the haziness of sleep. Before him the sitting room stood jarringly empty, the remains of Sherlock's work strewn across various tables like a maelstrom of paper. The detective himself was nowhere to be found.

Expression flatly confused, John turned and glanced toward the kitchen. No one there. Bathroom was open, as well, so the man wasn't in the loo. Oh, but... his bedroom door was ajar? Was Crenshaw awake, then? Had the two of them gone off somewhere? Perhaps a visit with Mrs Hudson...

As he formulated these theories John had been moving towards the bedroom, meaning to have a peek through the open door - just to be sure the flat was empty, mind, and that no one needed anything resembling medical assistance. A quick glance showed him the jumbled outline of a figure asleep on the bed and he drew back. Oh, Crenshaw hadn't gotten up yet. What was his door doing open, then? Thought for sure he'd heard it close last night... John frowned and reached out to gently shut the door for the sake of the lad's privacy.

Quite suddenly his sleep-addled brain seemed to catch up with processing the signals from his eyes, however, and John froze with his hand on the knob.

A shock of dark curls splayed out on the pillow. Freckled arm draped over a thin chest clad in a sleep-rumpled buttonup. _Sherlock's shoes_ discarded at the side of the bed.

A sharp bark of laughter nearly burst out from his throat but John clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it. Quietly as possible he crept away from the door and snatched up his phone from the table where he'd left it last night.

 _Don't wake up, don't wake up..._ he pleaded silently as he padded back to the door. Oh thank hell, they were still out. Grinning like a loon he snapped a photo of the scene.

The sound of his mobile's automatic camera-shutter noise seemed to startle Crenshaw quite badly. Out of nowhere the boy sucked in a panicked breath, eyes flying wide open, and flailed around comically before managing to shove himself up on one elbow.

"Wha'ver 'appened it weren' me swear t'christ," he slurred in a hasty jumble of cockney. John winced apologetically. Oops, bollocks, he'd forgotten about the shutter noise.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he offered, lowering his phone. Crenshaw blinked owlishly at him. After a second or so the boy seemed to recall where he was and fixed John with a faintly confused look.

"Oh, er... mornin', Dr Watson. What're you doin' in...?" His words trailed off as he appeared to realise that John was in fact stood in the half-open door, not in the room itself, and that the childish smile on the doctor's face was being directed equally towards him and someone else. With a blink Crenshaw glanced down to the warm lump of unconscious detective curled up next to him. Instantly his freckled cheeks went bright pink.

"Slept well, then?" John asked brightly, unable to smother his delighted expression in response to Crenshaw's obvious embarrassment. Not remotely fair to keep teasing the poor boy like this, he knew - but _really_ now, how could one help it? He and Sherlock were like a couple of goofy kids together, all fidgety gestures and awkward blushing... hilarious and strangely adorable all at once.

Below Crenshaw's chest Sherlock, in his usual habit of refusing to be roused from slumber by anything less than a magnitude ten earthquake, frowned and mumbled an indistinct complaint for all the noise. He shifted to wrap his upper body partially around his bed-mate's torso like a prodded cat and buried his head under a pillow.

"W-we didn't, I... really, I _swear_ this ain't what it looks like," Crenshaw stammered. With a self-conscious clearing of his throat he attempted to move away from Sherlock, only to find himself pinned firmly in place by the other man's grip round his midsection.

John just grinned.

"Fry-up alright for breakfast?" he asked after a brief pause to commit the scene to memory. Turning away from the door he set himself to the business of gathering ingredients from the fridge, hoping the change of subject would make it clear he had no problem with the situation. John had brought girlfriends round the flat before, after all, and Sherlock had always been decent enough to (more or less) put up with them. Wouldn't dream of complaining in the opposite scenario. Best mates, right? Certain codes of conduct to adhere to, both of them obligated to be civil to romantic partners.

Behind him he heard Crenshaw mutter an embarrassed affirmative. By the sounds of things the boy was attempting to extricate himself from Sherlock's grip without waking him. Needn't have bothered being so careful about it - if Sherlock hadn't stirred by now between all the talking and movement then it most likely meant the man was in the midst of one of his haven't-slept-in-days, dead-to-the-world comas. No amount of effort would rouse him from that.

John had gotten the pan nearly all the way heated up when Crenshaw finally stepped sheepishly into the kitchen and closed the bedroom door behind him.

"Er... Sherlock says he's not hungry," he informed John in a flustered mumble. John turned and regarded him with a half-amused, half-impressed sort of look.

"You managed to get him awake long enough to answer a question?" Facing back toward the stove John chuckled to himself, struck with a sudden thought: _Eric Crenshaw, Detective Whisperer._ Friend to all consulting lunatics.

"Y-yeah...?" Crenshaw was carefully taking a seat at the table, looking helplessly anxious. His hands had strayed towards each other to press palm-to-palm in that strange habit of his. John quirked an exasperated smile in the lad's direction as he turned to grab the carton of eggs.

"No need to be nervous," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

Crenshaw startled and seemed to realise what his hands were doing. He whipped them away from each other to tuck them under his thighs instead. "Oh, er... sorry," he muttered, biting his lip. "I'm just, uh... not sure if I, well... I mean I don't want to make things awkward or noth- _anything,_ erm. Or anything."

Having trouble keeping his accent straight, apparently. John smiled to himself and cracked an egg into the pan on the stove. Supposed it must be true, then - opposites attract. Because he couldn't very well think up a more polar opposite to the cavalier insanity of Sherlock Holmes than a meek, kind-hearted worrier. Why the boy was acting like one wrong move would be the death of him, though, he had no idea.

"No chance of that. Really, I'm just pleased to see him getting on with someone for a change," John explained as he moved on to the sausages. "And the whole exes bit... kind of a relief, to be honest. We'd all thought perhaps he'd taken a vow of celibacy."

Crenshaw snorted in disbelief. "Celibacy? _Him_?"

"I take it we were wrong?" John smiled to himself, flipping a few links in the pan. Oh yes, this conversation was progressing in all the right directions. Absolutely brilliant.

 _Bad job you couldn't be bothered to wake up, Sherlock..._ he thought impishly. Perfect opportunity to gather some choice material for teasing the man.

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure he was a bit of a- erm..." Crenshaw trailed off, going faintly pink again. "That is, from what I'd gathered, he'd _got around_ quite a lot during uni. If you, er, know what I... mean." He coughed awkwardly and rubbed at the back of his neck. "... certainly wasn't inexperienced, anyway."

John made a strange, sputtering _pfft_ noise in an attempt to stifle an inappropriate burst of cackling laughter. _Not inexperienced...?_ Oh lord, but the million implications of that simple statement. Sherlock using his absurd deductive powers to go sharking about some late-night uni club - he could just picture it. And he didn't even _want_ to imagine the man's idea of pillow talk. Did he even do the whole quintessential romance bit? Or had he been one of those clingy, overprotective types?

Though, perhaps the most important question... "Was he a good boyfriend?"

Crenshaw looked to have been taken completely off-guard by that. He fixed John with a befuddled stare as the older man set a plate laden with eggs and sausage down in front of him.

"A good...? Er..." The lad's brows furrowed in thought. He glanced back over his shoulder to the bedroom, seeming to deliberate for several long seconds. John took a seat on the opposite side of the table and studied him with interest. Rather complicated history there, it seemed. Fascinating. Though not the least bit unexpected, of course, considering the man involved...

In a spark of clear cognisance John suddenly found himself struck by just how little he actually knew about his flatmate. Who _was_ Sherlock, really? And what precisely did Crenshaw see in him? There had to be something there besides all the snark and vain posturing, after all. Something more... human. John had seen glimpses of that hidden empathy from time to time, obviously, but now he couldn't help wondering at the depth of the man Crenshaw knew. Sherlock almost seemed to be a completely different person around him - all soft edges and enthusiasm.

Finally Crenshaw turned back round again. A small smile flitted across his face.

"Yeah," he decided. "Yeah... I guess he was."

**««**


	5. Chapter 5

**««**

Eric ate his breakfast slowly, trying and failing to avoid jumping like a skittish hare over every slight movement in the room. Wasn't very mature behaviour, this. Quite probably making Dr Watson think him some sort of lunatic... but then Eric couldn't exactly help it. Meeting new people invariably put him on edge, as did staying as a guest in others' homes, and to make matters worse he'd lost his bottle of anxiety medication in the fire. Combined with Watson's apparent, vaguely bewildering glee over everything Eric and Sherlock did together this was all turning into a rather perfect storm of nervous static buzzing through his skull.

Of course he supposed he really couldn't fault the doctor for reacting like a kid at Christmas over all this nonsense - one could only imagine how Sherlock normally behaved around the man, after all. What few blog posts Eric had managed to read (before Sherlock had nicked his laptop back and taken over the storytelling) had painted a bit of an inconsistent picture. Generally one of fascination and mystery, building Sherlock up like some sort of amazing creature to be studied, but also doing things like calling him 'spectacularly ignorant' in the same breath. It was confusing.

And that 'ignorant' line in particular... that had bothered Eric a bit. Not because he _disagreed_ \- he was after all fairly certain, after their conversation last night, that Sherlock genuinely had no idea what a koala was - but because it just seemed a tad mean-spirited to write something like that in public where everyone could read it. Sherlock, the bloke Eric remembered, the one he'd been getting reacquainted with over the last several hours, would be downright mortified by such things being made widely known. The fact that he wasn't perfect, that he forgot silly things like how the solar system worked, that he sometimes felt more comfortable behaving like a child than an adult... back in Stockwell he'd always done his best to hide that stuff.

And that didn't seem to have changed. In fact he appeared to have fallen into the habit of keeping such things firmly under wraps at all cost, no matter who he was with. Watching the two flatmates interact over the last half-day or so, Eric had noticed quite a lot of obvious showmanship on Sherlock's part. Playing himself up to fit into what seemed like a fairly well-established act. Trying to make sure he didn't end up being called 'ignorant' or the like in a blog post again, if Eric had to hazard a guess. That had to be a stressful way of life, didn't it? Never quite comfortable being yourself, knowing any weird thing you did might end up published on the internet for a load of strangers to laugh over...

Dr Watson really did seem like a nice enough bloke, though. Perhaps he just didn't realise the effect his actions might have on Sherlock's behaviour? It wasn't as if Sherlock was likely to have said anything, after all. Idiot _never_ spoke up about being made uncomfortable, stoic to the bitter end. It wouldn't be the least bit odd if he'd simply never objected.

Eric paused with his fork halfway to his mouth to eye the man across from him critically for a moment. Dr Watson glanced up with a smile, a bit of a questioning tilt to his brow, a genuinely friendly expression on his face. No, Eric decided, there clearly wasn't any malice there. This wasn't a _bad_ bloke, just a... well, a _spectacularly ignorant_ one.

"Something wrong?" Watson asked, and Eric winced a bit in deliberation of what he should say. He really wasn't sure how to go about broaching this topic without it being massively awkward.

"Oh, er... no," he muttered. Then cleared his throat, frowned at himself, and set his fork down determinedly. Sod it, Eric, can't be a bloody doormat _all_ the time. "Is there a reason y'keep laughing at everything Sherlock and I do?"

There, brilliant. Sort of... not at all what he'd meant to say, but... yes. Brilliant. Somehow a question instead of the statement he'd been aiming for, a lot less self-confident than he'd hoped. But then _god's sake_ this really wasn't a conversation he'd even wanted to have in the first place. Best take baby steps.

Watson seemed a bit surprised, but smiled. "Oh! That, sorry. Not very professional, I know." He chuckled a bit in a self-depreciating way. "It's just... Sherlock usually puffs himself up as being better than all the rest of us, like some sort of machine. And now here after all that talk on the uselessness of sentiment and romance it turns out he dated someone like- er... well."

Watson cut off with a slightly embarrassed cough, turning to the business of cutting his eggs.

Eric frowned. "Someone like... what? Like _me?_ "

"Well... yes." Watson seemed aware he was heading into potentially-offensive territory, but soldiered on regardless. "I mean you've got to admit it's a little unexpected. What with him being all... you know."

"What...? Posh? Smart?" Eric felt his expression going flat, unamused. His accent had doubtless slipped several notches in annoyance. But in a sudden flash of something like deranged cultural pride, he decided he didn't care. Why should he have to pretend to speak with a 'proper' accent, anyway? Cockney should be good enough for anyone. It'd always been good enough for Sherlock, hadn't it? Once they got over the requisite good-natured mutual teasing, anyway.

"No, no of course not!" Watson backtracked, his smile a bit forced. "Well, that is, yes... I mean _he_ is, but that's not to say you're not also... that. Those things."

"I ain't nowhere near as clever, nor as well-mannered," Eric objected flatly. His accent had by now lost all pretence of being anything but the low-class drawl of an inner-city lad off the council estates. "But I don't need t'be, do I? I just get along with folks. I find out what makes 'em uncomfortable an' then I _don't do that._ An' your flatmate's been really uncomfortable with you giggling like a kid over everythin' we do so if y'could try t'keep a bit of a lid on that I'd appreciate it."

Watson blinked, his eyebrows shooting up. "He told you he was uncomfortable?"

" _No._ Course he bloody didn't," Eric countered in a vaguely exasperated tone. Honestly, how long had this bloke lived with Sherlock? A year? And he didn't yet realise you had to read between the sodding lines? "You've gotta watch how he acts if y'wanna know what he's thinkin', he won't just bleedin' _tell_ you."

"Well in that case how can you be sure you're right?" Watson replied. He didn't seem angry at all, just intrigued. And perhaps a little amused - though, to his credit, he looked to be making an effort not to let that show. "I've asked him about it, by the way, and he said he didn't mind."

Eric just scowled. "He won't _tell_ you he minds, christ, he'll just-" He cut himself off and huffed. There wasn't really a good way to explain any of this. Not without giving away far more about Sherlock's childhood than was appropriate, anyway. Fairly sure the man wouldn't appreciate having the darker elements of his past laid bare without consent. "Look, I know I'm right, yeah? I've... I mean we were really goddamn close, way back when. An' I know it's weird t'say we still _are_ , cause it's been such a long time, but..."

"No, I get it," Watson broke in. He was still smiling, though not in merriment - more like an odd sort of patronising fondness. One of those kind looks older folks give to confused or troubled teenagers. Eric furrowed his brows and tried not to seem affronted; he really bloody hated those looks. "You're good for him," Watson continued. "We've all spent ages trying to get the daft idiot to act like a human being and here you've gone and done it in a few hours! Nice to see, honestly."

Eric opened his mouth, meaning to retort with something like _he acts the way he does because you're making him_ , but thought better of it. No, god... didn't need to get in an argument on his first morning here. Not over something like this. He was damned lucky Watson hadn't blown up at him already, anyway. Best just back out while he was still ahead.

Reluctantly he forced a smile. "Erm... yeah. Thanks."

Watson gave him a slightly odd look, like he could see the hesitation there, but declined to comment. Instead he finished the last few bites of his breakfast and stood up to take the plate over to the sink.

"I do locum work at a nearby clinic, scheduled the morning shift today... should be back around noon-ish. Make yourself at home."

"W-will do, thanks," Eric muttered in response. He poked at his sausage and smiled as Dr Watson waved on his way out of the kitchen. Sounds of the man slipping on his shoes, grabbing his coat, shutting the door... the flat fell silent.

Eric huffed to himself. Well _that_ had been complete rubbish. He frowned down at his mostly-finished breakfast, then glanced up round the kitchen. Had no idea where the bin was, nor who usually handled the washing-up... oh sod it. He'd just deal with it later.

It would've probably been a better choice to have a quick shower, or look into finding clothes he could wear to the meeting he had to attend in a few hours, but Eric found himself flopping back into bed instead. Sherlock, still asleep, grumbled over being disturbed.

"I think I might've offended your flatmate," Eric admitted into the stillness of the bedroom. He was lying on his back now, staring at the ceiling, and on a whim reached out to ruffle Sherlock's hair. The lazy swat at his hand in response made him smile.

"You didn't, John's impossible to offend," Sherlock mumbled back. "I should know I've been trying for a bloody year."

Eric plucked at a particularly bouncy black ringlet, making Sherlock growl in annoyance and shove his head under a pillow again.

"He thinks y'don't mind him writing stuff on his blog about all the weird shit you do," Eric divulged after a short pause. Bloody hell, what was he even hoping to accomplish here? Some sort of absurd communications therapy? Playing matchmaker for two grown-arse men?

"I don't." Sherlock's voice was muffled by the pillow, but still clearly audible in the otherwise silent room. Eric rolled his eyes at the undercurrent of defensiveness. Liar.

"Yeah you do," he responded blandly. "You're just not sayin' anything cause that would mean you've got proper feelings t'be hurt and we can't have _that_ now can we."

Sherlock finally poked his head out from under the pillow, propped himself up on his elbows, and glared blearily at Eric.

"What are you, then, some sort of bloody couples counsellor?" he sniped. Apparently going for an angry tone, but the sleepiness still layered under his voice made it come out more of a tired monotone and he seemed to give up. With a huff he let himself collapse again. "Ugh. It's not worth bothering over. Just let him do what he likes."

Eric shrugged. "Hey, I don't really care. S'your business. I just think if someone's being an arse to you maybe you should say sommat."

"I _have_ ," Sherlock snapped back, a bit of a whinge to his words. "I got all miffed about the first one but he wouldn't shut up about the bloody _solar system_ for some asinine reason so I tried explaining why I'd forgotten but apparently it's _primary school stuff_ and, ugh... sod it. Who cares, anyway. It's not important."

"Did you even go to primary school?" Eric asked, aware that had nothing whatsoever to do with the topic at hand but finding himself too curious not to change the subject. He vaguely remembered something about _tutors_ and not having met other children until secondary but couldn't for the life of him recall what conversation it might have come up in. They'd probably both been stoned, come to think of it.

"No," Sherlock mumbled into the pillow below his face.

Eric huffed a small laugh. A sidelong glance showed Sherlock's back twitch slightly in a small bemused snort. Finally, with a yawn, the man shoved himself into a sitting position and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

"Planets are utterly boring," he announced to no one in particular.

"I dunno. This one seems alright," Eric countered with a shrug. "Y'know... most days."

"No, boring, the lot of them." Sherlock stood up directly on the mattress, stepped carefully over Eric's torso, and hopped down to the floor on the other side of his bed. "Have a look through my closet for trousers and a shirt, then. We've a few stops to make before your meeting."

" _We?_ " Eric repeated, blinking. "Hang on-"

Sherlock was already out the door and headed for the shower.

**««**

"Ugh, what's _he_ doing here?" Philip moaned to Sally as they walked into the lobby of their workplace holding twin cups of too-hot coffee. Sally looked up from the phone in her hand to find the Freak standing by a potted plant over by the lifts, clearly waiting around for Lestrade to show up. God, _one day_ without that lunatic in her hair, was that so much to ask?

"It's Lestrade's day off, Freak," she pointed out with a frustrated glare. Holmes blinked and glanced over at her, but before he could speak an unfamiliar bloke appeared from the nearby hallway where the loos were and strode up to them.

"This _bleedin'_ shirt, mate. Why d'you even own a buttonup in royal purple?"

Ignoring Sally, Holmes turned his attention to the new arrival. "You're the one who chose to wear it."

"Cause none of th'rest were clean!" The man rolled his eyes and shuffled on a grey wool peacoat he'd had slung over his arm. "At least it goes well with the grey, s'pose."

"Everything goes well with grey, that's the entire point of a neutral colour."

The other bloke snickered as he did up the buttons on his coat. "Be gayer, Shers."

Holmes frowned in a vaguely exasperated manner but apparently chose not to respond to that. He turned towards Sally and Anderson instead, who were both in varying states of reaction to the casual use of a pet-name for their mutual least-favourite psychopath. _Shers_ , really? Sally tried not to snort in bewildered amusement. Holmes gave the two of them a flat look before carrying on speaking as if nothing at all strange had happened.

"I need access to long-term evidence storage," he announced without preamble. "Lestrade won't answer my texts, so one of you will have to assist me instead."

Sally was too busy eyeing the man standing next to Holmes to really pay the detective much mind. Freckles and a more-or-less cockney accent... she could've sworn she'd seen that combination in conjunction with Holmes before. Some old case file or something, perhaps? She furrowed her brows as she stared at the bloke, feeling as if she were teetering right on the verge of some momentous realisation. Who _was_ this guy...?

"Erm... hullo," the man spoke up awkwardly in response to Sally's fixed gaze on him.

"Finally replaced Watson, have we?" Philip sneered from beside Sally, indicating the newcomer with a tilt of his coffee cup in that direction. "Nice to see the good doctor's come to his senses and left you."

Holmes half-rolled his eyes as the unnamed man next to him frowned.

"John's at the clinic for the morning. I'll tell him you said hello," Holmes said blandly, then turned to Sally. "The evidence, please, Sally. I'd ask Anderson but he's left his keys and ID badge on the bookshelf by your hearth."

"I have not- oh..." Philip patted down his pockets, suddenly alarmed. "Damn it!"

Sally heaved a resigned sigh and dug her keys out of her pocket. She unclipped her house key from the ring to hand it over to Philip, who took it and hastily bustled off toward the entrance muttering obscenities to himself.

"Interesting..." Holmes started in with a smirk, plainly about to rattle off a million little facts he'd just pieced together via god-knew-what stupid innocuous detail. Sally quickly cut him off, scowling. No, _far_ too early in the morning for that nonsense.

"Save it, Freak," she snapped. Beside Holmes the freckled bloke startled a bit from where he'd been bemusedly watching Anderson's retreat and shot her a dark look. Sally ignored it and headed for the side hallway that led to their secured evidence area.

"They've just entered into another 'on' portion of their on-again, off-again adulterous affair," Holmes muttered behind her, just loudly enough to be overheard. She grit her teeth and resolved not to respond.

"How charming," the cockney bloke replied in an unimpressed drawl. Sally risked a glance back over her shoulder and found Holmes and the other man walking comfortably side-by-side, watching her like some sort of terribly fascinating zoological specimen. She flicked her head back round haughtily - what business was it of _theirs_ , honestly- and flung the door at the end of the hall open. Whatever, god. Just had to let Holmes in to fawn over whatever blood-spattered nonsense he felt the need to see, then she could kick his arse out the building and get back to her actual job.

"Go on, then," she ordered Holmes with a less-than-enthusiastic wave of her arm after unlocking the specific room he'd indicated needing access to. The freckled bloke tried to walk inside as well, but Sally stopped him with an outstretched arm in front of his chest. " _One_ unauthorised civilian snooping round at a time, thanks," she explained in a flat grumble.

"Oh, er... right. Sorry." The bloke smiled, took a step back and tucked his hands in his trouser pockets to wait. Sally remained in the doorframe, arms crossed, and glanced in to make sure Holmes wasn't doing something absurd like trying to disassemble a sodding handgun. Luckily he seemed to be in a fairly tame mood today and was merely picking through bagged samples of bloodied fabric, studying each one intently for microscopic signs of whatever-the-hell.

"So you're the new pet, I take it?" Sally asked of Holmes' companion, turning back round to face him.

"Excuse me?" The man's eyebrows furrowed in an insulted look. Sally just rolled her eyes. Brainwashed, plainly - damned Holmes and his bloody mind games.

"He's a psychopath, you know," she warned in a stern tone of voice. Watson was a lost cause, but maybe she could still get through to this one. "Whatever he told you to get you to follow him? It's a lie. You're probably just a replacement for Watson."

Out of nowhere the freckled bloke actually _glared_ at her, which wasn't an entirely unexpected response to her words but still managed to look unsettling on his otherwise open, friendly face. Sally held her ground regardless. Damned if she was letting Holmes corrupt another innocent soul.

"I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop talkin' now," the man remarked flatly. Then, apparently resolving to ignore her, he turned his attention to the rows of shelves they could see through the open door of the evidence vault.

Sally wasn't about to be dissuaded so easily. This could very well be a matter of life and death, after all - who knew what Holmes would do to this poor bloke? Hell, who knew what he'd done to _Watson?_

"I'm serious, he's dangerous," she insisted, matching the dark scowl now trained sidelong on her. "He investigates all these gory homicide cases because he _gets off_ on it - we don't even pay him! One day it'll be you or Dr Watson dead and bloodied on the floor with that lunatic standing over your corpse and-"

"Lady," her conversation partner broke in, his hateful expression having practically transformed his face into a furious mask. "I will punch you in the _fucking gob_ if you don't shut up about my boyfriend."

Sally baulked, thoughts skittering to a sudden confused stop. "Your...?"

Before she could say anything further Holmes appeared at the storage room entrance, grinning like the complete nutter he was. He held a bagged clothing sample in one hand and waved it in the freckled bloke's face.

"Eric, look! Maggot remains! I was right, the victim's clothing was swapped for an artificially-aged shroud post-burial."

Eric, as he was apparently called, glanced over with a bright smile. "Is that what you were doin' with the eye-maggots business last night?"

"Yes, until you distracted me," Holmes confirmed. He took one last careful look at the plastic-encased fabric, then dismissively handed it over to a startled Sally. "You can return this to its proper place, thank you. I'll be e-mailing Lestrade later today with the correct solution to yet another bungled case of yours."

Sally opened and shut her mouth a few times, but didn't get a chance to retort to the snide insult. Holmes had already started off down the hall, followed closely by his... his _boyfriend_ , really!? God, no. That was _horrifying_. Had to have been a lie.

But then why in hell's name would anyone lie about dating _Holmes_? And their conversation... _'yes, until you distracted me'_? Eugh. No, no no.

Grimacing in disgust at the unwelcome mental imagery flitting through her head, Sally ducked into the storage room to return Holmes' fabric sample to the correct filing box. Once done she locked the door behind her, took an enormous swig of her hereto-abandoned coffee and hurried for the lifts.

Forget it - forget _all_ of it. She had work to do.

**««**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So I seem to have somehow switched POVs mid-scene on the first section. Sorry bout that. I really don't feel like going to the bother of reworking it to be consistent though so instead I just tried to make the transition as smooth as possible. Hopefully it's not confusing._

**««**

"I think I accidentally told that policewoman we were dating."

Sherlock blinked, glancing sidelong. He opened his mouth to respond but Eric was already speaking again.

"Not on _purpose_ , I mean, it just... she was being a massive bitch and I told her I'd punch her in the gob if she didn't shut up, and I think I called you my boyfriend for some dumbarse reason?" The man winced and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Christ... sorry. I dunno why I'd-"

"You told Sally you'd punch her in the face?" Sherlock cut in, finding himself terribly amused by that mental image.

"Well, yeah. She called you a psychopath and then she started goin' on about how you'd murdered Watson or something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, _that_ again. She tried the same routine on John when he first started following me about, it's nothing to be concerned over."

"I wasn't _concerned_. It were just sodding rude, that's all," Eric countered with a deep frown. "... so did you miss the bit where I'd called you my boyfriend or do you not care?" he continued after a pause - not in a tone of irritation, however, but of genuine inquiry. Apparently he still fully expected Sherlock to filter out parts of his speech without meaning to and for some deranged reason didn't find it annoying or inconsiderate. Sherlock smiled slightly, then in a fit of illogical embarrassment masked the expression by glancing down at his phone.

"If she brings it up in future I'll convince her she has a faulty memory," he replied with a shrug. Making a show of ostensibly checking the time he slipped his phone back into his pocket. "The wonderful thing about Sally is that she's tremendously susceptible to psychological manipulation."

"Is that why she thinks you're a psycho?" Eric asked blandly.

"Er... probably, come to think of it." Sherlock tilted his head in thought, trying to recall what he'd done to pit Donovan so militantly against him. Details escaped him. Most likely a case back in the beginning of his time with the Met - perhaps he'd charmed her into letting him in to see a crime scene or something? "Can't remember what exactly I did," he admitted. "Doubtless something to do with chatting her up for the use of her access badge."

"Ladies' man," Eric chided with a small snicker for Sherlock's faintly disgusted look.

"What time was your sales meeting?" Sherlock asked, pointedly changing the subject. Eric shrugged.

"Ten-ish, still a few hours yet. Wanna do sommat?"

"I have no idea what we could do," Sherlock replied. As they walked aimlessly down the street from the police station he'd taken to idly tapping every fence railing they passed by, which was odd but amusing.

"It's London, not like there's a shortage of coffee shops or... I dunno, restaurants? Do you still not eat breakfast?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Not unless John forces me to."

"Right," Eric ceded, smiling. "Well then I s'pose that's coffee, then? Or tea, whatever."

"Going to a café? Isn't that what people do on _dates?_ " Sherlock's tone was blandly sarcastic, but he'd adjusted his path to turn down a side-street and beckoned Eric to follow, apparently having already decided on a shop and the quickest route to get there.

"It's what people do when it's eight in the morning and they want a cup of coffee."

Sherlock smirked but didn't respond. Instead they wandered down a few more streets in companionable silence until they'd reached a cozy-looking little café tucked up between some shops. Evidently a place Sherlock knew well, as the man working the counter looked up and grinned enthusiastically when they entered.

"Ah, Mr Holmes!" he exclaimed happily. Sherlock nodded in polite greeting as the man immediately busied himself preparing a drink.

"Cleared up his insurance fraud charges," Sherlock explained disinterestedly in response to Eric's questioning look. Eric snorted in amusement - of course the idiot went round meddling in all the local businesses' legal problems.

"Why'd you do that, then? Bored?"

"No, I was hoping he'd give me free coffee if I helped him out."

As if on cue the little balding man showed up with a large paper cup and with a wide smile handed it over to Sherlock. "And for you, sir?" he asked, looking to Eric.

"Ah, just... y'know, whatever's easiest?" Eric replied with a slightly worried smile. Didn't want to put the poor guy out any expensive ingredients just because he'd happened to walk in with Mr-Free-Drinks over there. Sherlock, of course, had already wandered over to one of the windows and stood staring out over the sparse pedestrian traffic, sipping his coffee.

Eric accepted a (much larger than he'd have liked) cup of black coffee and turned to find Sherlock actually watching something outside with an alarming intensity. He raised a brow and strode over to him, trying to follow his line of sight, but it was just a couple blokes standing on the corner and a woman strolling by with a pram. He turned his gaze to Sherlock instead - looked a bit like a pointer dog just caught sight of a bird. Eric huffed a small breath of bemusement and blew on his drink to cool it.

"What're you lookin' at?" he finally asked.

"Those men are planning something." Sherlock nodded his head to the blokes on the corner, who seemed to simply be having a conversation. Eric took an experimental sip of his coffee and found it still way too hot to drink.

"Loads of people plan things," he pointed out, wincing a bit for his mildly burnt tongue. Doubtless Sherlock meant some nefarious scheme or whatever, but it was more fun to bother him by pretending to have no idea what he was on about. Sure enough Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I mean they're planning something _illegal_ , obviously." Without warning he thrust his coffee cup in Eric's direction, who took hold of it with a startled noise, and marched off toward the shop door. "Stay here, I'll see if I can find a closer vantage point. Won't be a minute."

"Wh- oi, that's not very date-like behaviour, mate!" Eric yelled after him, but Sherlock just shot an unimpressed look over his shoulder for the admittedly silly joke and pushed his way out into the street. Eric scoffed a bit in exasperation and wandered over to take a seat at one of the tables by the windows. Might as well watch what Sherlock did, he figured; though that turned out to be nothing more interesting than loitering near the corner where the soon-to-be criminals were huddled together and pretending to light a cigarette.

When his targets moved up along a side street Sherlock followed, disappearing around a corner. Welp, so much for that, then. Eric leant back in his chair, sipped his coffee (or Sherlock's, maybe - he'd gotten them a bit mixed up in transit to the table) and idly checked his watch. Give the prat fifteen minutes to remember he'd been doing something besides stalk people, then if he'd not returned Eric would just flag down a cab for himself and head for his meeting. Not like Sherlock wouldn't figure out where he'd gone.

As he glanced back up to the street he found his view blocked by a shiny black towncar pulling up to the shop's kerb. He tilted his head, bemused - odd thing to see round here, wasn't it? Maybe some rich bloke had a specific liking for this café.

A woman in a smart pencil skirt emerged from the car, however, and strode purposefully into the shop. She made her way directly to Eric's table and loomed over him with a Blackberry in hand.

"Come with me," she said simply. Eric furrowed his brows.

"Um... if I say no is something very bad going to happen?"

"Yes, probably," the woman replied disinterestedly. She'd turned her attention to tapping out some message on her phone, all but ignoring Eric, who was beginning to feel a sharp coil of panic creep through his chest. He glanced outside to the ominous black car, then over to the woman, and reluctantly got up from his seat.

"Can... can I bring my coffee?" he asked in a somewhat lame attempt to stall. Instead of replying the woman just reached out, took not-quite-gentle hold of his arm and led him out of the shop.

**««**

Mycroft shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then leant on his umbrella and checked the time on his pocketwatch. If all had gone according to plan, which of course it had, because everything he did went according to plan, then Anthea should be arriving with his guest just about... now.

He glanced up and, sure enough, a car had pulled into the deliberately-gloomy warehouse.

Not particularly inventive to use the same location to interrogate every potential threat to his brother, but then again it was awfully convenient this way. Didn't even have to give the driver new directions. He slipped his watch back into his pocket and straightened up to stand with his umbrella resting in front of him, a picture of calm, elegant, dangerous poise.

Unlike the last time he'd done this, the target of Mycroft's inspection didn't immediately stride toward him. Instead the young man appeared to have frozen in petrified fright next to the open door of the towncar. Mycroft furrowed his brows in confusion - what, should he... beckon him? Weren't Sherlock's associates generally a bit more forward? John had practically gone for a blow at this point. But luckily within a second or so the freckled man stumbled forward, apparently shoved by Anthea, and approached with the reluctant air of a convict being sent to the gallows.

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, studying the boy, and soon determined that he was rather profoundly uninteresting. Aside, of course, from the fact that he was wearing one of Sherlock's shirts. And a pair of his trousers. And... oh. Was that…? No, it couldn't possibly be the same coat. Sherlock hadn't worn it in _years_ , didn't even own the thing anymore as far as Mycroft knew. Perhaps he just happened to own a similar one.

Dismissing his thoughts, Mycroft calmly gestured to the lone chair in front of him. "Please, have a seat."

To his vague surprise Crenshaw immediately did so. The man glanced around the darkened warehouse like a cornered rabbit and pressed his palms together a few times before looking up toward Mycroft nervously. Mycroft waited a moment for the boy to speak - perhaps ask why he'd been abducted, or glare maybe, just show a bit of a spine about the whole business - but all that ensued was a markedly silent staring match between them. Crenshaw seemed to be drawing closer to hyperventilating with every passing second.

Finally Mycroft cleared his throat. "Do you know why I've brought you here?"

Perhaps going for the cold, imposing tone of voice hadn't been the best of ideas. Crenshaw's shoulders curled up like a hedgehog and his eyes went wide as saucers, head jerking side to side in a terrified but silent _'no'._ Mycroft furrowed his brows slightly. Alright, he'd honestly just meant to _question_ the man, not give him a heart attack. Best tone down the melodrama a bit. He made a concerted effort to soften his voice with is next question.

"How do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

There, not a particularly threatening inquiry, easy enough to answer, should be a simple... Crenshaw went chalk-white and seemed to be on the verge of being sick all over the concrete. Mycroft leant back on his heels, vaguely concerned. Was the boy going to _faint_ on him? He'd not thought to have an ambulance on standby.

"I'm, er... w-we... I m-met him... a... a while ago...?" Crenshaw stammered. Good god but he really was absolutely terrified, wasn't he? Mycroft took as non-threatening a step back as he could manage and tried to let the majority of the intimidating aura dissipate from his stance.

"If you could make an effort to calm down, I think we'd both have a far easier time of things," he pointed out. Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say, because Crenshaw just squeaked something that might have been meant to be an apology, but which came out more like the sort of noise a mouse might make, and went more pallid than ever.

Mycroft considered just calling the whole business off right then, allow the poor overwrought man to settle down a bit, but quickly dismissed the notion. No, he'd come this far without having a stroke, it would be fine. And they only had a few more questions left anyway.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" That had come out a bit more authoritative than he'd intended, mostly because Mycroft had momentarily forgotten he was attempting to not thoroughly terrify his victim. Habits, terribly difficult to break. Crenshaw made another odd mouse-like noise and seemed to be trying to subconsciously shove himself straight through the wood of the chair back.

"I, er... I d-dunno? M-maybe?" he stuttered, pressing his palms together again. "Sh-should I not...?"

"He does tend to attract a significant amount of danger to his person," Mycroft answered, tone a perhaps not-quite-subtle note of flat exasperation. Right, then - casual, remember, scale back the theatrics. This was an absurdly frightened young civilian, not a terror suspect. Nor an ex-army medic. Which, come to think of it, would have been quite welcome to have on-hand at this point, because he was fairly sure Crenshaw really _was_ going to faint within the next few minutes.

Before Mycroft could continue with his interrogation, hoping fervently that he'd not have to conclude the session by instructing his driver to speed for the nearest A&E, a loud bang on the far side of the warehouse made the both of them jump.

Well - _jump_ was a bit of an over-dramatic term for what Mycroft did, which was to lift his eyebrows slightly and turn his head towards the noise. It was however an entirely accurate description of Crenshaw's movement, which consisted of launching himself from his seat with such haste that the chair toppled over with a clatter.

Mycroft glanced back to him and frowned. Oh, honestly. No need to dent the furniture.

" _Mycroft!_ " a deep voice snarled, echoing off the distant walls. A moment later the distinctive silhouette of Sherlock condensed in the shadows outside the carefully-constructed circle of half-light. Mycroft spared the barest of glances for his furious little brother, a slight, bland smile on his face, then looked back to his erstwhile captive.

Crenshaw still had the air of a terrified rabbit, but upon looking over to spot Sherlock approaching them the boy's shoulders had loosened, body uncurling from its instinctive hedgehog cringe in obvious relief. And well, but wasn't _that_ interesting. Relief was not a common human response to the sight of Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes, hello," Mycroft greeted in a polite quip. Turning his attention away from Crenshaw and back to his brother he furrowed his brows quizzically. That had been an awfully quick pursuit, especially factoring in the time it would have taken him to realise his companion had gone missing. Had to have used GPS. "Which signal did you track?"

Sherlock made a noise that was very reminiscent of a petulant housecat and half-rolled his eyes. "Yours."

Mycroft stared for a microsecond, watching for signs of a forthcoming elaboration, but there were none. Sherlock wasn't going to explain how he'd gotten around the signal triangulation block. Which meant, of course, that he hadn't done anything particularly clever; plainly reluctant to reveal the simplicity of his methods for fear of looking like a dullard. And the absolute _least_ clever way to access the means to track Mycroft Holmes' mobile signal was...

"You are aware impersonation of a government official is a serious crime," he remarked blandly. Sherlock scoffed and flicked a bit of white plastic at him, which was of course Mycroft's security badge. Mycroft watched it land at his feet with an unimpressed frown and resolved for perhaps the millionth time in his life to double-check his pockets after every passing interaction with his brother.

"What a coincidence, so is kidnapping," Sherlock sniped back with acid sarcasm.

"Erm," a meek voice spoke up, and both Mycroft and Sherlock looked over to a wide-eyed, still alarmingly pale, Crenshaw. Instead of going on to verbally comment on whatever he'd been meaning to the young man turned a rather desperate questioning look towards Sherlock, who huffed an aggrieved sigh.

"Calm down, it's just my brother," he said, voice somewhat uncharacteristically lacking any obvious undertones of scorn or judgement. Mycroft blinked. Was... that his brother's version of being _comforting?_ Crenshaw looked dubious, but nevertheless his posture relaxed another notch. Mycroft raised a brow at the interplay. Interesting... very interesting.

"Oh stop," Sherlock snapped upon glancing Mycroft's way, presumably catching the calculating expression. Mycroft arranged his features into an innocent mask and leant back on his heels.

"I've not done anything," he remarked, adding a casual shrug for emphasis. Sherlock fixed him with an unimpressed glower, then turned back to Crenshaw, took a step forward and seemingly without thought grabbed the man by the arm to drag him off the way he'd come. Mycroft watched them go bemusedly. Oh, well that was a bit cute. They were very nearly hand-in-hand.

"Shall I tell Mummy to plan for another guest this Christmas?" he couldn't quite help calling after them in a teasing voice.

Sherlock didn't even bother to turn round. "Get back to running the bloody world, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled to himself. Twirling his umbrella, he turned and set a leisurely pace back to his waiting car.

"Surveillance level on Eric Crenshaw, sir?" his assistant asked the moment he came within earshot. He hummed lightly, amused by the situation in general, and glanced back the way his brother had gone.

"Maximum."

**««**


	7. Chapter 7

**««**

"What th' _fuck_ was all that!?"

Sherlock couldn't quite suppress a flinch at Eric's shrill tone, mostly because the sound was almost directly in his ear at the moment - Eric had gotten spooked by the slamming of the warehouse door behind them, and for whatever deranged reason had reacted by latching onto Sherlock's shoulders like a clingy child. This made walking vaguely difficult, but going to the bother of dislodging the cumbersome weight would likely just upset the man further. And that, Sherlock swiftly determined, would almost certainly lead to more shouting. Which he was not at all in the mood for. As a compromise he not-quite-subtly shifted his head away from the source of all the noise, hoping Eric would get the hint.

He didn't, of course. Glancing back over his shoulder the freckle-faced moron instead tightened his grip around Sherlock's shoulders and made a strange squeaking sort of noise in response to the distant roar of a car engine. Sherlock sighed, wondering vaguely if it were possible for someone to literally die of fright. Eric seemed to be doing his damnedest to find out.

"Who the 'ell was he, an' th'lady with th'phone, they didn't even- who the _hell!?_ "

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the meaningless jumble of nonsense masquerading as English. God's sake, this couldn't possibly be such a difficult concept to grasp. Was Eric's intelligence regressing along with his accent? Or had Mycroft truly frightened him straight out of his wits? What a ridiculous overreaction in either case.

Still, best answer anyway. If only to get the annoying panic-rambling to stop.

"I told you already, that was my brother. The woman with the phone is his PA," he explained in what perhaps may have counted as a patient voice were it not laced with a distinct undercurrent of condescension.

"They bleedin' kidnapped me!" Eric yelped, not put off in the slightest by Sherlock's patronising tone. His accent had now slipped so far back into cockney as to be almost incomprehensible. Sherlock huffed a rather put-upon sigh and, deciding this whole walking business really was _not_ going to work with a six foot limpet attached, finally made an attempt to extricate himself from Eric's grip. It was about half-successful - Eric ended up clinging to an upper arm instead of clamped round his shoulders. Sherlock frowned but reluctantly capitulated to the new arrangement. That would have to do, he supposed. At least they'd be less likely to end up face-first on the concrete this way.

"Mycroft abducts and questions anyone who he thinks might pose a potential security threat," he explained yet again as they continued walking. "He did exactly the same thing to John when we first met, it's not a big deal."

"Wh- _not a big deal!?_ " Eric barked, scandalised. He drew slightly away from his death grip on Sherlock's arm to glare disbelievingly. "How the _'ell_ is abductin' blokes inta thin air like laws don't mean nothin' _not a big deal!?_ He coulda offed me wivvout anyone so much as noticin' I'd gone!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nobody's going to off you. Don't be dramatic."

"It ain't bein' _dramatic_ when you've just got interrogated by a bleedin' shadowy evil government agent what plucked you up off th'street in broad daylight! And then a goddamn _abandoned warehouse_ for chrissakes! Gah!"

Eric punctuated this statement by frantically shoving his face against Sherlock's shoulder, apparently an attempt to hide from whatever danger he still perceived himself to be in. Sherlock rather exasperatedly reached up and patted the man on the head. The condescending gesture was coupled with an accompanying shift of his trapped right arm, hopefully conveying something along the lines of, ' _There, look, I've pretend to care that you're upset. Now kindly get the hell off.'_ Eric, predictably, did no such thing. Instead he pressed himself even further into Sherlock's personal space, so much so that the both of them were forced to come to a halt in the middle of the road lest they trip over each other's legs.

"Well you hardly need to worry about it happening again, do you?" Sherlock snapped with a futile, half-hearted attempt to reclaim some of his breathing space. "He's doubtless put you under full military surveillance by now, same as John and I. If you start to look like a threat they'll just neutralise you without bothering to ask questions. No more interrogations."

He wasn't sure if he'd meant that to be comforting or not. Whatever the motivation it certainly produced an interesting reaction in Eric, whose body completely froze except for his head, which he raised just enough to stare at Sherlock in mute horror. Sherlock responded with a bland, unconcerned look. They both held position for a beat before Eric's gaze flitted elsewhere, staring into the middle distance. He seemed to drop briefly into some sort of odd, stress-induced fugue state. Gone all hollow-eyed and lost.

"I'm gonna be walkin' down th'street one day an' just get shot in th'bleedin' head wivvout ever seein' it coming," he muttered to no one in particular. Sherlock made an exasperated face and tried once more to tug his arm loose - it was beginning to go numb.

"Don't be ridiculous. You won't be shot," he replied more tetchily than was perhaps necessary. Eric blinked back over to him and loosened his hold the tiniest fraction. Only to snap it right back to viselike as Sherlock unintentionally elaborated. "Obviously poison's the better option. Much easier to pass off as suicide. And no one does the 'mysterious accident' nonsense these days, what with modern prevalence of social media. Too risky. Staged domestic homicides are the secondary standard now. Usually blunt force head trauma or strangulation, depending on gender."

 _"Jesus fucking christ,"_ Eric moaned fearfully as he buried his face once more against Sherlock's coat. Sherlock grimaced as the belated realisation of what he'd just said registered in his brain. Ah, damn... he'd meant to keep those last few bits of information to himself. Mouth had kept going without his permission. Now they'd be stuck standing here _forever_.

Not enthusiastic about the prospect of loitering in the middle of a freight road until Eric either passed out or they were run down by a lorry, Sherlock decided to try a different tactic. Appeal to authority, maybe? Nearly always worked on John. Try issuing orders, see if that had any effect.

"Stop panicking," he commanded sternly.

Eric, irritatingly enough, did nothing of the sort.

In fact his response was quite nearly the exact opposite, which was to make a strange keening noise and hunch his shoulders protectively round his ears. Sherlock sighed. So much for that plan, then. In hindsight he really should have known it was only a valid strategy towards John, military background and all. Predisposed to follow orders. Eric wouldn't last half a second in the Army.

Speaking of, the man was actually _shaking_ now. Lacking any better idea Sherlock reluctantly raised his free hand to pat him on the back. This turned their strange arrangement into much more of a hug than he'd have liked, especially whilst standing right in the middle of a road, but sod it. Not like there was much else he could do until the idiot calmed down. Oddly enough the contact seemed to be helping that effort quite a lot. Sherlock had no idea why it should do so - he was just _patting_ him, god's sake. Like a bloody dog. Why would that be comforting? But he kept it up anyway.

Despite having calmed somewhat, and thankfully no longer trembling, Eric continued to refuse to act anything like his normal self for the next minute or so. Sherlock was beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable by proxy. Bloody hell, was anxiety somehow contagious? Ugh. No, this was ridiculous. Had to be some simple solution to the problem. What was he missing?

Unfortunate that John wasn't around to consult with on the matter. _He_ was the one with all the relevant experience in this area of social interaction, after all. As a doctor he'd even had proper, official _training_ regarding the matter. Crisis counselling and controlling the effects of shock, that sort of thing. Sherlock, meanwhile, had been actively avoiding the scenario all his life. He was _not_ a comforting individual. In fact if anyone besides Eric were to have latched themselves childishly to his arm like this he'd have knocked them out cold by now. Not a situation he'd ever permit under ordinary circumstances.

In the current circumstances, though... well, he couldn't quite reach his phone to text John. And waiting for a reply could take ages anyway. Best just treat it like a puzzle, then. That generally served him well enough. Try different solutions until one stuck. So what methods had he already tested? Physical contact had been mildly effective, reassurance seemed neutral at best, authoritativeness actively detrimental. That left... er... damn. He no idea what options that left.

Perhaps simply explaining things? The rationale behind Mycroft's overdramatic little stunt? Would that help? Having more information was generally conducive to a greater sense of security, at least in Sherlock's experience. Had a better chance of controlling things if you knew what was going on. Might as well try.

With this plan in mind he took a short breath, then began to speak.

"Mycroft Holmes holds a position of frankly _absurd_ power within the global political sphere. In effect he controls the intelligence agencies of every major western power. MI6, CIA, DCRI, that sort of thing. He's entirely capable, if he ever wanted to, of initiating a third world war in the space of a week. As you might imagine this makes it a highly enticing prospect to coerce him into working for your side. But no one's clever enough to manipulate him outright, of course, which just leaves blackmail."

"Th' hell are you on about?" Eric mumbled into Sherlock's coat. Sherlock perked up a bit and glanced down at him, not even registering the slight, silly smile on his own face. Hah! Look at that, he'd found the right tactic after all. No puzzle was outside his ability to solve, it seemed - not even people-based ones. Brilliant. Bolstered by his success he gamely continued on.

"Ordinarily a man of such power simply wouldn't be susceptible to crass extortion. The shadow puppeteers and grand manipulators of the world rarely attain their rank without systematically removing all personal ties, after all. But Mycroft..." Sherlock trailed off, frowning to himself. Not entirely sure he wanted to give voice to the next bit. But, then... well, he was already this far along. And the explanation wouldn't make any sense without revealing the crux of the problem.

Sherlock shifted his weight uncomfortably, breathing a short sigh through his nose. God, this was all so stupid.

"Mycroft... has me," he continued reluctantly. "For whatever reason, he... doesn't want me hurt." He wrinkled his nose slightly in distaste. Ugh, that had been alarmingly close to sentimental. Quickly he shifted on into the next portion, cover up the moment of infirmity with scathing sarcasm. "Touching as that fraternal concern no doubt is, it effectively renders my personal safety an incredibly useful bargaining chip. If I'm captured or threatened, Mycroft will find himself in the position of having to either follow orders or allow me to be injured. He... has yet to choose the second option."

Eric had actually deigned to lift his head now, which seemed like a good sign. Sherlock took a final huff of a breath and finished his idiotic little explanation.

"So you can see his insistence on vetting anyone I come in contact with is really no more than a preventative measure. He's just trying to avoid the inconvenience of having to negotiate with terrorists again. It's got nothing whatsoever to do with you personally."

Despite the discomfort of having to explicitly discuss such matters, Sherlock was still rather proud of himself. The explanation seemed to have almost entirely distracted Eric from the issue of panicking. Worth the bother, then. At long last the man released Sherlock's arm _(causing the blood to flow back into it well before the nerves were ready, gah, pins and needles)_ and shoved a hand through his hair as he took a very small step back. Still standing much closer to each other than casual acquaintances should really be, of course, but no longer stuck together like a pair of magnets. Good start.

"He couldn't've just checked my records or something?" Eric asked in a weary grumble. Still rather frustrated, even perhaps verging towards pissed off, but no longer fearful. And his accent had gone back to something approaching comprehensible. Sherlock forcefully smothered a strange, unbidden jab of disappointment which shot thorough him over the switch. No, god, shut up. He did _not_ have any absurd sentimental attachments to a stupid cockney slur. Vaguely northern-ish estuary was a much better alternative. Easier to decipher.

But back to the topic at hand. With a casual shift of his shoulders to resettle his coat Sherlock turned and resumed walking down the road, Eric following behind at a distinctly slower pace.

"He might've done, yes," Sherlock conceded, shrugging. "But last night I used his security credentials to hack in to the government's primary database, scrambled any attempted background checks on you. He wouldn't have had access to any reliable data."

Abruptly Eric stopped walking. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder and found the man glaring at him in disbelief.

"So it's _your_ fault he decided to pluck me off the bleedin' street?"

Sherlock's self-congratulatory mood faded quickly and he paused mid-stride, spun fully around to face Eric. "What? No, of course not." A pause to reconsider. Ah, that might have been a... bit of a lie. Reluctantly he amended his statement. "Er... maybe. I don't really know, to be honest. I've no idea what he was planning to do if I hadn't interfered."

And there he was, yet again, casually admitting his lack of functional omniscience without even a pause for thought. He made an exasperated face for his own foolishness and moved to elaborate before Eric could break in with some sort of angry reprimand.

"But hacking those files wasn't just for _amusement's_ sake, obviously. Though, granted, it's very funny to mess around with Mycroft's-" He cut off as Eric's glare turned flatly unimpressed, a clear warning. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Anyway. I gave you the remaining balance of my trust fund, remember? The last time we met. Or... well, I suppose we didn't really meet. The last time I left you an envelope full of money in a mysterious bag which was actually _very_ difficult to get delivered with any degree of-"

"Sherlock," Eric interrupted, plainly not in the mood for rambling nonsense. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and shifted awkwardly.

"Right. Well... the point is Mycroft never found out what I did with that money. And your financial history happens to reveal a surprisingly accurate estimate of how much I had left prior to leaving the country. Using that value he'd be able to deduce roughly how much I spent. Which he would then further be able to break down into a list of probable purchases."

Eric was beginning to look confused. And, for some reason, vaguely alarmed. "And...?"

"And, I'd rather he not know exactly how many fake identities I acquired."

"Your brother can figure that out just from how much I deposited in a bank account eight years ago?"

Sherlock flashed a quick, humourless smile. "One doesn't gain control of a nation without a few singular skills."

With a quiet, disbelieving exhale of breath Eric took a few steps backwards to lean against the wall of one of the warehouses surrounding them. He shook his head somewhat dazedly and shoved a hand through his hair. Oddly enough Sherlock hadn't seen the man's palms come together in his nervous habit even once since leaving the warehouse. Perhaps he'd just chosen to latch onto Sherlock instead, traded one neurotic behaviour for another. Interesting that the tic could apparently be swapped out like that. Also... interesting that Sherlock was apparently a valid thing to swap it with. Hm.

"Christ... I forgot how bloody insane your life was," Eric mumbled, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts before they could turn deeply confusing. The man's tone wasn't too encouraging, however... too unsettlingly reminiscent of the last days in Stockwell. Those silent hours directly after Ben's murder, when Eric's patience with Sherlock's incessant peculiarities had begun to wear thin. The man had revealed a distinct upper limit for the amount of ridiculous nonsense he could tolerate. Evidently that hadn't changed.

For a long moment Sherlock could think of no appropriate response. His indecision led to a rather awkward silence between them.

Finally his brain conjured up the proper course of action. He glanced away before speaking.

"He might drop the surveillance if you leave."

Eric looked up, questioning, and Sherlock met his gaze for a second before shifting his line of sight towards a faded patch of concrete off to his right.

"The only reason he's monitoring you is because he thinks we're... friends." He shrugged, didn't know whether that was true or not. Probably didn't matter. Moving on. "Prove that assumption wrong and he'll likely decide not to waste the resources. Just... go home. Back to Lancaster."

Sherlock wasn't even quite sure why he was endorsing such a plan. Cowardly, wasn't it? He'd never so much as consider telling John to bugger off just to escape the stupid cameras. But then John hadn't ever cared about them. The danger amused him, even. Eric, on the other hand... he definitely cared. Knowing he was being watched at all times couldn't possibly be tolerable long-term, not for a man for whom 'paranoia' was a lifestyle. He'd crack within days.

And while John - brave, sturdy, thrill-seeking John - actually _revelled_ in the parade of life-or-death situations Sherlock continually found himself in... Eric was entirely a different story. Lacking a shred of anything one might charitably define as bravery, prone to bolting from danger without thought, patently unequipped to deal with any sort of acute stress... in short, unfit to function in Sherlock's world. It would be in his best interests to cut ties while he still had the chance.

That thought was unexpectedly rather disappointing. Though _why_ , Sherlock had no idea. What on earth else had he been hoping for? Literally the most that could ever have come of this brief reunion would be a long-distance acquaintance. Pen-pals or something useless like that. He'd not expected anything more.

Still, though. Giving voice to the obvious benefit of Eric removing himself wasn't particularly uplifting.

Eric seemed to be having roughly similar thoughts; or at least his face seemed to be running through an identical gamut. Contemplating the clear sensible option, finding it entirely unpalatable, going on to being confused as to why that should be. Finally he glanced up to Sherlock with an uncertain, dissatisfied expression.

"D'you... want me to leave?" he asked slowly. Oh, lovely. Pawning the decision off on someone else. Arsehole.

Sherlock stared at him. Should lie. Say _yes, of course, you idiot. You're the most annoying man I've ever met. Go away._ Would be the best course of action to shield Eric from any further insanities of Sherlock's existence. So childishly easy, too. Just say the words. Flip the switch in his brain and become the callous sociopath everyone knew him to be.

He took a breath, determined to take the reasonable path.

When he opened his mouth to speak, however, all that came out was, "No."

They stared each other down for a brief moment, rooted to the spot both by the inadvertent confession and their own better judgements. Certainly it was absolutely stupid to risk anyone's safety, privacy, or peace of mind for the sake of what most likely would turn out to be a passing re-acquaintance. Because of course it wouldn't go further. They both had their own lives to return to. Sherlock had John, by all rights the perfect counterpart to accompany his deductive process, the work. Eric had a music school to run. No eight-years-dead brief flame of a relationship justified abandoning two entire careers.

But it seemed neither of them could really find it in themselves to admit that. Sherlock couldn't suppress a bland, humourless smirk over the ensuing stalemate. Predictable, wasn't it. Just like old times.

They'd met as a couple of idiotic young criminals. Utterly destitute, reduced by their own stupid decisions to working for a drug lord. Neither had put any stock in the concepts of responsibility or good sense. There was no planning ahead, no considering the repercussions of their actions, no concept of a future. Why should they have cared? They'd not expected to live long enough for any of it to matter. Drug-addled miscreants were meant to die on the streets, shot or stabbed or overdosed, their short lives a perfect illustration of meaningless hardship. They'd made peace with that hollow end early on, because it had seemed the only path left to follow.

Sherlock knew well enough to keep these thoughts to himself. Wouldn't do any good to voice such inane musings. And yet, for whatever reason, he took a quiet breath and turned his gaze towards a cloud-mottled sky. Words formed of their own volition as he watched the heavens shift.

"We were never supposed to grow up," he muttered, idly tracking the flight of a passing bird. Eric glanced up as well and the animal darted swiftly out of sight. Brown eyes met grey as they both looked back down. Sherlock didn't even bother to mask the look of quiet melancholy he knew must be on his face. Who _cared_ , honestly. "Everyone knew I'd die of overdose sooner or later. You were going to smoke until your lungs gave out. We wouldn't live to see twenty-one."

Eric huffed a quiet, sad laugh. "Yeah..." He trailed off. Breathed a sigh. "Never gonna have to be an adult... guess that worked out about as well as anything, didn't it? We're both sodding adults now."

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I've never felt like one."

"Me either," Eric replied, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Is that a bad sign, y'think?"

"I have no idea."

Another long silence passed. Not uncomfortable, this time, however. Just... contemplative. Considering actions, weighing priorities. There were still too many choices to be made. Responsibilities to care for. Adult problems to face. Eric was right - what few plans they made hadn't ever really worked out. From the mundane task of getting home safely to the grim resolve to die before reality had a chance to set in. Despite all efforts to do otherwise they'd still moved on with their lives. So much for promises.

Finally Eric shoved himself off the wall he'd been leaning against. He checked his phone, then quirked a bland smile.

"I've missed my meeting," he remarked in a wry tone. Sherlock didn't react beyond a slight lift of his shoulders.

"Reschedule it," he replied, even though he really couldn't care less. Seemed like the proper thing to do; suggest a solution to the problem. Eric just made a vague noise of what might have been agreement, or perhaps just dull acknowledgement, before slipping his mobile back in his pocket. He looked up to the sky, just as Sherlock had done earlier, and after a brief moment lowered his gaze with an odd, melancholy smile.

"Wanna do something fucking stupid?" he asked suddenly. Sherlock gave him a faintly quizzical look, not sure what the man could possibly mean by that. What, was he suggesting they go get shitfaced? That wasn't likely to end well.

"Like what?"

"Like..." Eric took a few steps forward to stand next to Sherlock once more, dusting off his trousers as he walked. He looked back up, then away, seeming preoccupied with some internal deliberation. Finally he huffed a breath through his nose and shook his head. His glance back towards Sherlock seemed oddly hesitant. Wary, even.

"What?" Sherlock grumbled. Hell, what was the problem _now?_ He wasn't doing anything even remotely threatening. Just standing there. In a flash of annoyance he glared. _Eric_ , christ. Afraid of literally nothing. Before the other could reply he snapped at him. "God's sake, stop being such a bloody coward."

For some reason Eric laughed. He glanced away, smiling to himself. "Yeah... s'pose I should."

Sherlock was about to reply, a sharp query along the lines of _will you explain what you meant by 'something stupid' already? I'd like to get out of this bloody warehouse district by nightfall._ But Eric had chosen that moment to shift his eyes back to Sherlock's. The man leant towards him, grip tight on his arm once more, and in the next second Sherlock found the words he'd been about to utter quite effectively smothered.

Because it was, after all, rather difficult to speak through a kiss.

**««**


	8. Epilogue

**««**

_**I'm not going to hire you to investigate some made up case you nutter** _

_It would be a more plausible justification for travel. - SH_

_**How is visiting a friend not a plausible justification** _

_I generally claim to have no need of friends. Going out of my way to visit one would run counter to the established paradigm and confuse people. - SH_

_**Did you really just use the word paradigm in a text message** _

_Yes. - SH_

_**OK well god forbid you mess up that whole business then, very important things those paradigms** _

_Are you being sarcastic? - SH_

_**Yes** _

_Stop omitting full stops. - SH_

_**Stop signing your texts** _

_I can't, it's an automatic message setting. - SH_

_**Oh hey neat look my phone does it too--EC** _

_Really. - SH_

_**Really what--EC** _

_Stop. - SH_

_**Stop what--EC** _

_Fine, you win, I turned it off. Can we please get back on track?_

_**We were on a track?** _

_Yes, we were discussing meeting up in Lancaster. And plans thereof. You're the one who brought up the topic in the first place._

_**Oh, it wasn't really meant to be a topic mate I sort of figured you could work a train schedule by yourself** _

_Okay then, I'll just show up completely unannounced in the middle of some random weekday like a door-to-door salesman._

_**Sounds good** _

_Seriously?_

_**Yeah of course why would I care** _

_People generally like to plan for these things._

_**Does pretending to be a responsible adult make you feel smart or something** _

_Sort of._

_**Well stop you're smart enough already** _

_One can never be too intelligent._

_**Yes they can you're living proof** _

_Rude._

_**No really you could probably stand to lose about 10 thousand brain cells** _

_Was that your motivation for getting me drunk every chance you got, then? Culling excess neurons?_

_**Nah you're just hilarious when you're pissed, the brain damage was a side benefit** _

_Glad to be of some entertainment then._

_**You've never been boring, shers** _

_Nor have you, Eric._


End file.
